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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. ~^p \\ A~ O ^ 

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PRESENTED BY (~" *&, 

__D •_ Ar^^sXsJkaAc^t 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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(P 0Mf x ' ( >VT^- 1 C^-K** - 



3P0ETHGM. WOUU&i 

of 




THE BIRTH-PLACE OF BURNS. 



GLASGOW: 

John S. Marr, 194 ]3uchanan ^treet, 



259 



THE 



• POETICAL WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS 



MEMOIR, PREFATORY NOTES, 



A COMPLETE MARGINAL GLOSSARY. 



Sftitfe portrait anb Slhwrfrsitttw, 



GLASGOW: 
JOHN 8. MARR, 194 BUCHANAN STREET, * 

SUCCESSOR TO THE LATE 

GEORGE CAMERON, 



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PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 



There are now so many editions of -Burns's Poetical Works, that 
the issuing of a new one undoubtedly demands an explanation 
of the essential difference upon which it founds its claim to the 
attention of the public. In 1787, Cowper thus wrote regarding 
the perusal of Burns: — " Poor Burns loses much of his deserved 
praise in this country through our ignorance of his language. 
I despair of meeting with any Englishman who will take the 
pains that I have taken to understand him. His candle is bright, 
but shut up in a dark lantern. I lent him to a very sensible 
neighbour of mine, but his uncouth dialect spoiled all ; and 
before he had read him through, he was quite ramfeczled" Since 
Cowper wrote, this ignorance of the Scottish language has been 
increasingly prevalent even in Scotland. Now, to understand 
Burns's Scotch, the chief aid required is a good glossary. In 
this edition the words are glossed in the margin at the end of 
each line, so that no interruption occurs in perusal, for the 
translation is picked up at once without the delay attending the 
consultation of a glossary. 

All the Poems and Songs having a reasonable claim to be 
considered the composition of Burns, have been included, and 
those only kept out which had neither wit nor character to 
overlook, so far, their questionable tendency. 



6 



PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION. 



The arrangement of the Poems and Songs has been made so 
as to present, in the order of perusal, the means of justly esti- 
mating the varied character of the poet's powers — "from grave 
to gay, from lively to severe." Prefixed to each composition, 
when necessary or beneficial, are Notes, explanatory of what 
might not be otherwise easily understood by the general reader. 
In these have been engrossed most of the valuable notes by 
Currie, Gilbert Burns, Lockhart, Cunningham, Hogg, Mother- 
well, Chambers, Wilson, and some others. 

The fidelity of the text has been closely attended to, and, 
where it varied, the best, or both readings, have been given. 



CONTENTS. 



Pa £8 
Preface to the Present Edition, . . . . 5 

Memoir of Robert Burns, 21 

Preface to the First or Kilmarnock Edition, . . . .61 
Dedication of the Second or Edinburgh Edition, . . .03 

POEMS. 

The Cottar's Saturday Night, . . . . ■ . .65 
Tarn o' Shanter : a Tale, ....... 70 

The Twa Dogs : a Tale, . .76 

The Jollv Beggars, 83 

The Vision, 94 

The Holv Fair, 102 

Halloween, .109 

Address to the De'il, 117 

Death and Dr. Hornbook, .120 

' The Brigs of Ayr, .325 

The Death and Dying Words of Foor Mailie, . . . 132 

Poor Mailie's Elegy, 134 

The Auld Farmer's Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie, . .135 
The Author's earnest Cry and Prayer to the Scotch Representatives, 138 

Scotch Drink, 1 44 

A Winter Night, 148 

Man was made to Mourn, 151 

Address to the Unco Guid, . 154 

A Dream, 156 

First Epistle to John Lapraik, 160 

Second Epistle to John Lapraik, 164 

Third Epistle to John Lapraik, . . . « . .167 

To William Simpson, Ochiltree, 168 

The Ordination, 1 74 

To James Smith, 177 

The Twa Herds, 182 

Holy Willie's Prayer, ....... 185 

Epitaph on Holy Willie, 188 

First Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, . . . . .188 

Second Epistle to Davie, a brother Poet, . . . 102 



8 CONTENTS. 

Tarn Samson's Elegy, 

Epistle ta a Young Friend, . 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 

On Captain Matthew Henderson, . 

First Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry, 

Secon 1 Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry, 

Third Epistle to Mr. Graham cf Fintry, 

Fourth Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry, 

To the Rev. John M'Math, 

The American War : a Fragment, 

The Inventory, ..... 

Lament, occas : oned by the unfortunate issue of a Friend's 

A Note to Gavin Hamilton, Esq., 

Despondencv: an Ode, 

Address to Edinburgh, 

To John Goudie of Kilmarnock, 

Epistle to John Rankine, 

Tragic Fragment, 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent anguish, 

A Prayer in the prospect of Death, 

Stanzas on the same occasion, 

On the Poet's Daughter, 

Lines intended to be written under a noble Earl's picture. 

On a Scotch Bard gone to the West Indies, 

The Farewell, .... 

Written on the blank-leaf of a copy of the Poems, presented to"! 
an old Sweetheart, 

The Kirk's Alarm: a Satire, 

To a Mountain Daisy, . 
x Toa Mouse, 

To a Haggis, 
• To a Louse, 

Address to the Toothache, 

Willie Chalmers, 

Winter : a Dirge, 

Verses written under violent grief, 

To Ruin, .... 

The First Six Verses of the Nineteenth Psalm, 

The First Psalm, .... 

**On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me, 

Verses written under the Portrait of Ferguson, 

Inscription on the Headstone of Ferguson, 

Address to the Shade of Thomson, 

On Sensibility, .... 

On the Death of a Favourite Child, 

Verses to Miss Graham of Fintry, 

To Chloris, . . 

Lines sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended, 



Page 

. 194: 

. 197 

. 199 

. 203 

. 207 

. 209 

. 213 

. 215 

. 215 

. 218 

. 220 
Amour, 222 

. 225 

. 226 

. 228 

. 230 

. 231 

. 233 

. 234 

. 234 

. 235 

. 236 

. 236 

. 237 

. 238 



239 

240 
243 
245 
246 
248 
249 
250 
252 
252 
253 
254 
255 
255 
256 
256 
257 
257 
258 
259 
259 
260 



CONTENTS. 


. 




Pasre 


Verses to John Ranldne, 


. 260 


N^On Scaring some Water-fowl on Loch-Turit, . 


261 


The Eights of Woman, 


262 


A Vision, . 


2(i3 


A Mother's Lament for the Death of her Son, 


264 


The Ruined Maid's Lament, ..... 


265 


, The Hermit, written in the Hermitage of Aberfeldy, 


266 


The Humble Petition of Bruar Water, 


267 


Verses on the Destruction of the Woods near Drumlanrig, 


270 


Verses written with a pencil over the chimney-piece in the) 
parlour of the Inn at Kenmore, ) 


• 271 






Elegy on Miss Burnet of Monboddo, ■'••'■ 


274 


Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, . 


275 


Lines sent to Sir John Whitefoord, . 


277 


Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald, . 


277 


Letter to James Tennant of Glenconner, . 


279 


On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair, . 


280 


To Miss Ferrier, enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair, 


i 82 


Elegy on the Death of Lord-President Dundas, 


283 


On reading of the Death of John M'Leod, Esq., 


284 


On William Smellie, 


285 


Address to Mr. William Tytler, . . 


285 


The Tree of Liberty, 


286 


Liberty : a Fragment, ..... • 


289 


To Mr. Maxwell of Terraughty, . . . 


289 


To Dr. Blacklock, in answer to a letter, . 


2ii0 


Epistle to Major Logan, . . . .' . 


292 


To Clarinda, with a present of a pair of drinking glasses, 


294 


To Clarinda, on his leaving Edinburgh, . . . t 


295 


Epistle to Hugh Parker, 


295 


Written in Friars' Carse Hermitage, . . . 


296 
297 


improved version, . . 


Extempore to Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, 


299 


On a Wag in Mauchline, 


299 


On Captain Grose's Peregrinations through Scotland, 


300 


To Mr. M'Adam of Craigen-gillan, . . . . . 


301 


Epistle to William Creech, 


302 


On Mr. Burton, 


304 


To the Guidwife of Wauchope, ...... 


305 


Elegv on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux, 


307 


The Calf, 


308 


To Mr. Mitchell, Collector of Excise, Dumfries, . . • . 


308 


To General Dumourier, ....... 


309 


Inscription for an Ahar to Independence, .... 


310 


Lines written on a Bank Note, 


310 


To a Kiss,' .......... 


311 


Sonnet on the Death of Captain Riddel, .. . . . 


311 



10 



CONTENTS. 



Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday, 
Sonnet on hearing 1 a Thrush sing in a morning walk, 
Verses -written while standing by the Fall of Fyers, 
The Five Carlines, ...... 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith, 
On Mr. Heron's Elections: Ballad first, 

— Ballad second, 

Ballad third, 

; Ballad fourth. 

The WhSstle 

Lines on meeting with Basil, Lord Daer, 
Monody on a Lady famed for her caprice, 
Epistle from Esopus to Maria, .... 

Delia, 

Sketch — New Year's Day, ..... 
Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Dumfries, 
Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit night, . 
Written to a Gentleman who had sent a newspaper, 
Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods on his Benefit night, 
Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her Benefit night 
On Pastoral Poetry, ..'... 

The Vowels : a Tale, 

Ve sps left, at a Friend's house, .... 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems, . 

Written in an Envelope enclosing a letter to Captain Grose, 

Extempore in the Court of Session, 

Fragment., inscribed to the Eight Hon. C. J. Fox, . 

Elegy on the Year 1789, 

Address of Beelzebub to the President of the Highland S 

The Dean of Faculty, 

On Life, addressed to Colonel De Peyster, 

Peg Nicholson, 

To my Bed, 

On the Duke of Queensberry, .... 

Impromptu on Willie Stewart, .... 

Verses to John M'Murdo, Esq., .... 

On Mr. M'Murdo, ...... 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, ..... 

To Miss Cruickshanks, ..... 

A Sketch, ....... 

On being Appointed to the Excise, 

The Discreet Hint, ...... 

Nature's Law, ....... 

Verses to John Rankine, . . 

The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate Child, 

The Henpecked Husband, ..... 

To a Tailor, in answer to a Poetical Epistle, . 
Remorse : a Fragment, ..... 



CONTENTS. 



11 



On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, 

On the Illness of a Favourite Child, 

To Mr. John Kennedy, .... 

To the Same, . . 

To Mrs. C , on receiving a work of Hannah Mon 

Lines found among the Poet's Papers, 

Fickle Fortune: a Fragment, 

On an Evening View of the Ruins of Lincluden Abbey, 

To Clarinda, ...... 

To the Same, ...... 

To the Owl, 

Extempore pinned on a Lady's Coach, . 

Johnny Peep, 

Impromptu, ....... 

On a Henpecked Country Squire, 

Another on his Widow, .... 

On Captain Grose, the celebrated Antiquary, 
On Incivility shown the Poet at Inverary, 

Highland Hospitality, 

On the Kirk at Lamington, .... 

Written on a Pane of Glass, 

On Elphinstone's Translations of Martial's Epigrams, 

Lines on Mrs. Kemble, .... 

Xhe Solemn League and Covenant, 

On a certain Parson's Looks, 

On seeing the beautiful Seat of the Earl of ?, 

On the Earl of * 

On the Same, 

To the Same, on being threatened with his resentment, 

On an Empty Fellow, who boasted of his great connections, 

The True Loyal Natives, 

"Written in a Lady's Pocket-book, 

Inscription on a Goblet, .... 

Extempore to Mr. Syme, .... 

To Mr. Syme, with a present of a dozen of porter, 

The Creed of Poverty, .... 

To John Taylor, 

The Toast, 

To Miss Fontenelle, on seeing her in a favourite character, 
Written on a Window of the Globe Tavern, Dumfries, 

On Robert Riddel, 

On the Death of a Lap-dog, .... 

Excisemen Universal, — written on a window, 

On a Suicide, ....... 

Tarn the Chapman, 

A Bottle and an Honest Friend, .... 
To the Brethren of the Masonic Lodge of Tarbolton, 
On Burns's Horse being Impounded, . . ♦ 



12 



CONTENTS^ 



to attend a 



at Rosslvn, 



Libr; 



Poetical Reply to an Invitation, 

Another, .... 

The Toad-eater, . 

Invitation to a Medical Gentleman 

On War, .... 

On Drinking, 

On Innocence, 

On a Country Laird, . 

Verses to the Landlady of the Inn 

Epigram on Bacon, 

On Andrew Turner, 

Lines to John Rankine, 

On Miss J. Scott, Ayr, 

Lines on Stirling, 

The Reproof, 

The Reply, 

On an Illiterate Gentleman who had a fine 

Written on a Window of the Inn at Carron. 

"Written under the Picture of Miss Burns, 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn, Moffat, 

Fragment, .... 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Staig's recover 

On Miss Jessy Lewars, 

Grace before Meat, .... 

Grace after Meat, .... 

Grace, spoken at the Table of Ryedale, 

On the Author's Father, 

On a Henpecked Country Squire, . 

On a celebrated Ruling Elder, 

On a Friend, 

On a Noisy Polemic, .... 

On Wee Johnny, 

For Robert Aiken, Esq., 

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline, . 

Epitaph on a person nicknamed The Marquis. 

For Gavin Hamilton, .... 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish, Fifeshire, 

On Mr. Yv r . Cruickshanks, 

On Wat, . 

For William xsicol, 

On W , 

On the Same, 

On John Bushby, Writer, Dumfries, 

On Gabriel Richardson, Brewer, Dumfries, 



Masonic Meeting, 



A Bard's Epitaph, 



596 



CONTENTS. 



13 



SONGS. 



Adieu ! a heart- warm, fond adieu 

Adown winding Nith I did wander. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 

Again rejoicing nature sees, . 

Ah, Chloris ! since it may na be, 

A Highland lad my love was born 

Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 

Amang the trees where humming bees, . 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December. 

And oh, for ane- and- twenty, Tarn ! 

And oh ! my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie ! 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 

As down the burn they took their way, 

As I came in by our gate end, 

As I gaed down the water side, 

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsimmer e'ening, 

As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, 

As I was walking up the street, 

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

Awa', Whigs, awa', .... 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows, 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive, . 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 

Blythe ha'e I been on yon hill, 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Braw, braw lads o' Galla water, . 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 

Can I cease to care, 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 

Cauld is the e'enin' blast, 

Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame, 

Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 



14 



CONTENTS. 



Deluded swain, the pleasure, 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Duncan Gray cam' here to woo, 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, . ... 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows, 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

First when Maggy was my care, . 

Flow gently, sweet Afton ! among thy green braes, 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 

Frae the friends an' land I love, 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, ... 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night, . 
Gat ye me, oh gat ye me, .... 
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 
Green grow the rashes, 0! . 

Had I a cave on some wald distant shore, 

Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 

Here around the ingle bleezing, 

Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie, 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's to thy health, my bonuie lass, 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 

Hey, the dusty miller, ...» 

How can my poor heart be glad, . • • 

How cruel are the parents, . . ... 

How lang an' dreary is the night, 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon 

Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

I am a bard of no regard, .... 

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 

I am my mammy's ae bairn, 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint, . 

I coft a stane o' haslock woo', 

I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing, 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, 

1 ha'e a wife o' my ain, .... 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, , , • , 



CONTENTS. 



15 



I married with a scolding wife, 

In coming by the brig o' Dye, 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, 

I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, . 

Is there, for honesty poverty, 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face, . . . 

It was a' for our rightfu' king, 

It was the charming month of May, 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

Jamie, come try me, ..... 
Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the heather, . 
Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 

Landlady, count the lawin, 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Last May a braw wooer cam' down the lang glen, 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 

Let not woman e'er complain, 

Long, long the night, 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 
Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Musing on the roaring ocean, 

My bonnie lass, I work in brass, . 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie ! 

My heart is sair — 1 dare na tell, . 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart was ance as blythe and free, . 

My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 

Nae gentle dames, though e'er sae fair, . 
No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No cold reproach, no altered mien, 
Now banks an' braes are clakh'd in green, 
Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
Now spring has clad the grove in green, 
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns, 



16 



CONTENTS. 



O can ye labour lea, young man ? ... 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain strayin 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

O gi'e my love brose, brose, 

O guid ale comes, and guid ale goes, 

how shall I, unskilfu', try, 

leeze me on my wee thing, 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, . 

O merry ha'e I been teethin' a heckle, . 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 

One night as I did wander, 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 

steer her up and haud her gaun, 

O that I had never been married, . 

wat ye what my minnie did, 

O wha my babie clouts will buy ? 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

Oh aye my wife, she dang me, 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

Oh cam' ye here the fight to shun, 

Oh gin my love were yon red rose, 

Oh how can I be blythe and glad, 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa', Willie ! 

Oh ken ye what Meg o' the mill has gotten, 

Oh lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? . 

Oh, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa 1 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, 

Oh leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 

Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide, 

Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! . . . 

Oh luve will venture in, 

Oh Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, . 

Oh Mary, at thy window be, 

Oh meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, 

Oh mount and go, .... 

Oh, my love's like a red, red rose, 

Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Oh Philly, happy be that day, 

Oh poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Oh raging fortune's withering blast, 

Oh rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Oh sad and heavy should I part, 

Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, . . 



CONTENTS. 



17 



k? 



Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely? . 

Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 

Oh tell na me o' wind and rain, . 

Oh this is no my ain lassie, . 

Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day, 

Oh, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast, . 

Oh wha is she that lo'es me, 

Oh wha will to St. Stephen's house, 

Oh, whare did ye get that hauver meal bannoc 

Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, -my lad. 

Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 

Oh why the deuce should I repine, 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

Powers celestial, whose protection, 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Robin shure in hairst, 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 

See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

She is a winsome wee thing, 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou\ 

Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature ? 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigieburn, 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee, 



The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, . 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The de'il cam' nddlin' thro' the town, 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were maw 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckc 

The last braw bridal that I was at, 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 



18 



CONTENTS. 



The lovely lass of Inverness, . # 

The noble Maxwells and their powers, * 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

There cam' a piper out o' Fife, 

There liv"d a carle on Kellvburn braes, . 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, . 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 

There's news, lasses, news, .... 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han\ . 

There w T as a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie lass, 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young, 

There were three kings into the east, 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, . 

The sun he is sunk in the west, 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, . 

The tither morn, when I forlorn, . 

The weary pund, the weary pund, 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! . 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Though cruel fate should bid us part, 

Though women's minds, like winter winds, 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin, 

Up in the morning's no for me, 
Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 

"Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e, 

"Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad? 

'What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie 

"What will I do gin my hoggie die, 

"When first I began for to sigh and to woo her, 

"NY hen first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

"When first my brave Johnnie lad, 

"When I think on the happy days, 



CONTENTS. 

When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 
When o'er the hill the eastern star, 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 
Where are the joys I have met in the mornin 
Where, braving angry winter's storms, . 
Where Cart rins row in* to the sea, 
Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? 
While larks with little wing, 
Why, why tell thy lover, 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Wilt thou be my dearie? 

Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon, 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around, 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right, 

Ye Jacobites by-name, give an ear, 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 

Yon wandYing rill, that marks the hill, 

Yon wild mossy mountains, sae lofty and wide, 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad, ♦ 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 



19 

Page 
482 
431 
510 
520 
486 
489 
548 
515 
535 
473 
398 
4 l J8 

398 
399 
397 
496 
549 
537 
508 
590 
449 
555 
454 
458 






MEMOIR OF BURNS. 



CHAPTER I. 

BURNS'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



Robert Burns, Scotland's greatest poet, was born in Kyle, a 
district of Ayrshire, on the 25th of January, 1759, as he himself 
naively depones in his rattling song of u Robin" : — 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But what na day, o' what na style, 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 

To be sae nice wi' Robin. 
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five an' twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win' 

Blew hansel in on Robin. 

Our monarch was then George the Second, and the blast o' 
Janwar' win' increased to such a pitch that it blew down the 
auld clay biggin' in which he was born, and compelled the 
inmates to find shelter in a neighbouring house. The cottage, 
which is now converted into an alehouse, stands about a mile 
and a-half south from the town of Ayr. 

Burns has, in a letter to Dr. Moore, ingenuously and forcibly 
told his own story during the earlier part of his life. Where his 
eloquent pen has been employed we shall not think of intruding. 
Our first chapter, then, shall be 

BURNS'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that char- 
acter which the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a 



22 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

gentleman. When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted - 
in the Herald's Office; and looking through that granary of 
honours, I there found almost every name in the kingdom; 

but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, Purpure, Argent, &c, quite disowned me. 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, 
and was thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large, 
where, after many years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked 
up a pretty large quantity of observation and experience, to 
which I am indebted for most of my little pretensions to wisdom. 
I have met with few who understood men, their manners, and 
their iv ays, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, and 
headlong ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circum- 
stances ; consequently 1 was born a very poor man's son. For 
the first six or seven years of my life, my father was gardener 
to a worthy gentleman of small estate in the neighbourhood of 
Ayr. Had he continued in that station, I must have marched 
off to be one of the little underlings about a farm house ; but it 
was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his power to keep 
his children under his own eye till they could discern between 
good and evil ; so, with the assistance of his generous master, 
my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those 
years I was by no. means a favourite with anybody. I was a 
good deal noted for a retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy 
something in my disposition, and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I 
say idiot piety, because I was then but a child. Though it cost 
the schoolmaster some thrashings, I made an excellent English 
scholar, and by the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was 
a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and 
boyish days, too, I owed much to an old woman who resided in 
the. family, remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and super- 
stition. She had, I suppose, the largest collection in the country 
of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, 
witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, elf-canclles, dead-lights, 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 23 

wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted towers, dra- 
gons, and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry, but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to 
this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp 
look-out in suspicious places ; and though nobody can be more 
sceptical than I am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort 
of philosophy to shake off these idle terrors. The earliest com- 
position that I recollect taking pleasure in was w The Vision of 
Mirza," and a hymn of Addison's beginning, u How are thy ser- 
vants blest, Lord !" I particularly remember one stanza, 
which was music to my boyish ear: — 

" For though on dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave." 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my 
school-books. The first two books I ever read in private, and 
which gave me more pleasure than any two books I ever read 
since, were, The Life of Hannibal, and The History of Sir William 
Wallace. Hannibal gave my young ideas such a turn, that I 
used to strut in raptures up and down after the recruiting drum 
and bagpipe, and wish myself tall enough to be a soldier; while 
the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into my veins, 
which will boil along there till the floodgates of life shut in 
eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country 
half mad ; and I, ambitious of shining in conversation parties on 
Sundays, between sermons, at funerals, &c, used, a few years 
afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so much heat and indiscre- 
tion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy against me, which 
has not ceased to this hour. 

My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage to me. My social 
disposition, when not checked by some modification of spirited 
pride, was, like our Catechism definition of infinitude, without 
hounds or limits. I formed several connections with other youn- 
kers who possessed superior advantages — the youngling actors, 
who were busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they were 



24 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! I was destined 
to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at this green 
age that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense 
distance between them and their ragged .playfellows. It takes 
a few dashes into the world to give the young great man that 
proper, decent, unnoticing disregard for the poor, insignificant, 
stupid devils, the mechanics and peasantry around him, who 
were perhaps born in the same village. My young superiors 
never insulted the clouterly appearance of my plough-boy car- 
case, the two extremes of which were often exposed to all the 
inclemencies of all the seasons. They would give me stray 
volumes of books : among them, even then, I could pick up 
some observations ; and one, whose heart I am sure not even 
the Munny Begum scenes have tainted, helped me to a little 
French. Parting with these my young friends and benefactors, 
as they occasionally went off for the East or West Indies, was 
often to me a sore affliction; but I was soon called to more 
serious evils. My fathers generous master died ; the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell 
into the hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of 
one in my tale of " The Twa Dogs." My father was advanced 
in life when he married ; I was the eldest of seven children ; and 
he, worn out by early hardships, was unfit for labour. My father's 
spirit was soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was a 
freedom in his lease in two years more ; and to weather these 
two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very poorly. 
I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest 
to me was a brother (Gilbert) who could drive the plough very 
well, and help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might 
perhaps have viewed these scenes with some satisfaction, but so 
did not I : my indignation yet boils at the recollection of the 
scoundrel factor's insolent threatening letters, which used to set 
us all in tears. 

This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the 
unceasing moil of a galley-slave — brought me to my sixteenth 
year ; a little before which period I first committed the sin of 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 25 

rhyme. You know our country custom of coupling a man and 
woman together as partners in the labours of harvest. In my 
fifteenth autumn, my partner was a bewitching creature, a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that language ; but you know the 
Scottish idiom — she was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, 
she altogether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that 
delicious passion which, in spite of acid disappointment, gin- 
horse prudence, and book-worm philosophy, I hold to be the 
first of human joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she 
caught the contagion I cannot tell : you medical people talk 
much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, &c, 
but I never expressly said I loved her. Indeed, I did not knov/ 
myself why I liked ^o much to loiter behind with her when 
returning in the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her 
voice made my heart-strings thrill like an iEolian harp ; and par- 
ticularly why my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I looked 
and fingered over her little hand to pick out the cruel nettle- 
stings and thistles. Among her other love-inspiring qualities, 
she sang- sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel to which I 
attempted to give an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so 
presumptuous as to imagine that I could make verses like printed 
ones, composed by men who had Greek and Latin ; but my girl 
sang a song which was said, to be composed by a small country 
laird's son on one of his father's maids with whom he was in 
love, and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as well as he ; 
for excepting that he could smear sheep, and cast peats, his 
father living in the moorlands, he had no more scholar- craft 
than myself. 

Thus with me began love and poetry, which at times have 
been my only, and till within the last twelve months, have been 
my highest enjoyment. My father struggled on till he reached 
the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a large farm, about 
ten miles farther in the country. The nature of the bargain he 
made was such as to throw a little ready money into his hands 
at the commencement of his lease ; otherwise the affair would 



26 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfortably 
here ; but a difference commencing between him and his land- 
lord as to terms, after three years' tossing and whirling in the 
vortex of litigation, my father was just saved from the horrors 
of a jail by a consumption, which, after two years' promises, 
kindly stepped in, and carried him away to where the wicked cease 
from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm that my little 
story is most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, 
perhaps the most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no Soli- 
taire was less acquainted with the ways of the world. What I 
knew of ancient story was gathered from Salmon's and Guthrie's 
Geographical Grammars , and the ideas I had formed of modern 
manners, of literature and criticism, I got from the Spectator. 
These, with Pope's Works, some plays of Shahsp ear e, Tull and 
Dickson On Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the 
Human Understanding, Stackhouse's Histof^ of the Bible, Jus- 
tice's British Gardener's Directory, Bayle's Lectures, Allan 
Ramsay's Works, Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, 
A Select Collection of English Songs, and Hervey's Meditations, 
had formed the whole of my reading. The collection of songs 
was my vade mecum. I pored over them driving my carLjor 
walking to labour, song by song, verse by verse — carefully not- 
ing the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and fustian. 
I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic craft, 
such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I -went 
to a country dancing school. My father had an unaccountable 
antipathy against these meetings, and my going was, what to 
this moment I repent, in opposition to his wishes. My father^ 
as I said before, was subject to strong passions ; from that 
instance of disobedience in me he took a sort of dislike to me, 
which I believe was one cause of the dissipation which marked 
my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively with the 
strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country 
life ; for though the Will-o'-Wisp meteors of thoughtlp.ss whim 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 27 

were almost the sole lights of my path, yet early-ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years afterwards within the line 
of innocence. The great misfortune of my life was to want an 
aim. I had felt early some stirrings of ambition, but they were 
the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his 
cave. I saw my father's situation entailed on me perpetual 
labour. The only two openings by which I could enter the 
temple of fortune was, the gate of niggardly economy, or the 
path of little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so con- 
tracted an aperture, I never could squeeze myself into it ; the 
last I always hated — there was contamination in the very 
entrance ! Thus, abandoned of aim or view in life, with a 
strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as 
from a pride of observation and remark; a constitutional me- 
lancholy or hypochondriasm that made me fly to solitude; add 
to these incentives to social life my reputation for bookish know- 
ledge, a certain wild logical talent, and a strength of thought, 
something like the rudiments of good sense, and it will not seem 
surprising that I was generally a welcome guest where I visited, 
or any great wonder that always where two or three* met 
together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other 
'impulses of my heart, was un penchant a Vadorable moitie du 
genre humain. My heart was completely tinder, and was 
eternally lighted up by some goddess or other ; and as in every 
other warfare in this world, my fortune was various, sometimes 
I was received with favour, and sometimes I was mortified with 
a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no 
competitor, and thus I set absolute want at defiance ; and as I 
never cared further for my labours than while I was in actual 
exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an 
assisting confidant. I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid 
dexterity that recommended me as a proper second on these 
occasions ; and I daresay I felt as much pleasure in being in the 
secret of half the loves of the parish of Tarbolton, as ever did 
statesman in knowing the intrigues of half the courts of Europe. 






28 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

The very goose feather in my hand seems to know instinctively 
the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite theme of 
my song, and is with difficulty restrained from giving yon a 
couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my compeers, 
the humble inmates of the farm house and cottage; but the 
grave sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptize these things 
by the name of follies. To the sons and daughters of labour 
and poverty they are matters of the most serious nature ; to 
them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender farewell, 
are the greatest and most delicious parts of their enjoyments. 

Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration 
m my mind and manners was, that I spent my nineteenth sum- 
mer on a smuggling coast, a good distance from home, at a noted 
school to learn mensuration, surveying, dialling, &c, in which I 
made a pretty good progress. But I made a greater progress 
in the knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade was at 
that time very successful, and it sometimes happened to me to 
fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot 
and roaring dissipation were till this time new to me ; but I was 
no enemy to social life. Here, though. I learned to fill my glass, 
and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on 
with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, 
a month which is always a carnival in my bosom, when a charm- 
ing Jillette who lived next door to the school, overset my 
trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent from the sphere of 
my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines and co-sines 
for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charming 
noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel, 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers, 
Herself a fairer flower." 

It was in vain to think of doing any more good at school. The ' 
remaining week I stayed, I did nothing but craze the faculties 
of my soul about her, or steal out to meet her ; and the two last 
nights of my stay in the country, had sleep been a mortal sin, the 
image of this modest and innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 29 

I returned home very considerably improved. My reading 
was enlarged with the very important addition of Thomson's and 
Sh en stone's works. I had seen human nature in a new phasis ; 
and I engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary 
correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. 
I had met with a collection of letters by- the wits of Queen 
Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly : I kept 
copies of any of my own letters that pleased me ; and a com- 
parison between them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents flattered my vanity. I earned this whim so 
far, that though I had not three farthings' worth of business 
in the world, yet almost every post brought me as many 
letters as if I had been a broad plodding son of day-book and 
ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty- 
third year. Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole prin- 
ciples of action. The addition of two more authors to my library 
gave me great pleasure ; Sterne and Mackenzie — Tristram Shandy 
and The Man of Feeling — were my bosom favourites. Poesy 
was still a darling walk for my mind, but it was only indulged 
in according to the humour of the hour. I had usually half- 
a-dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as it 
suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work 
as it bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, 
raged like so many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then 
the conning over my verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! 
Xone of the rhymes of those days are in print, except u Winter," 
a dirge, the eldest of my printed pieces ; u The Death of Poor 
Mailie," " John Barleycorn," and songs, first, second, and third. 
Song second was the ebullition of that passion which ended the 
forementioned school business. 

My twenty-third year was to me an important era. Partly 
through whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing 
something in life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town 
(Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an unlucky affair, and, to 
finish the whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to the 



80 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

New- Year, the shop took fire and burnt to ashes, and I was left 
like a true poet, not worth a sixpence. 

I was obliged to give up this scheme. The clouds of misfor- 
tune were gathering thick round my father's head ; and what 
was worst of all, he was visibly far gone in a consumption; and, 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille whom I adored, and who had 
pledged her soul to meet me in the field of matrimony, jilted me, 
with peculiar circumstances of mortification. The finishing evil 
that brought up the rear of this infernal file, was my constitu- 
tional melancholy being increased to such a degree, that for three 
months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied by the 
hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — Depart from 
me, ye accursed! 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life ; but 
the principal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship 
I formed with a young fellow, a very noble character, but a hap- 
less son of misfortune. He was the son of a simple mechanic ; 
but a great man in the neighbourhood taking him under his 
patronage, gave him a genteel education, with a view of bettering 
his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was ready to 
launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to 
sea, where, after a variety of good and ill fortune, a little before 
I was acquainted with him, he had been sent on shore by an 
American privateer on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped oi 
everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow's story without adding 
that he is at this time master of a large West Indiaman belonging 
to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with independence, magnanimity, and 
every manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of 
enthusiasm, and of course strove to imitate him. In some 
measure I succeeded. I had pride before, but he taught it to 
flow in proper channels. His knowledge of the world was vastly 
superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. He was the 
only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself where 
woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the 
levity of a sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with horror, 






AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 31 

Here his friendship did me a mischief; and the consequence was, 
that soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote " The Poet's Wel- 
come." My reading only increased, while in this town, by two 
stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand Count Fathom, 
which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some reli- 
gious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; but meeting with 
Ferguson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly- sounding 
lyre with emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went 
among the hounds that prowl in the kennel of justice ; but we 
made a shift to collect a little money in the family amongst us, 
with which, to keep us together, my brother and I took a neigh- 
bouring farm. My brother wanted my hair-brained imagination, 
as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in good sense, 
and every sober qualification, he was far my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, Come, go to, I 
will be wise! I read farming books — I calculated crops — I at- 
tended markets, and, in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, 
and the flesh, I believe I should have been a wise man ; but the 
first year, from unfortunately buying bad seed, the second, from 
a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This overset all my wis- 
dom, and I returned, like the dog to his vomit, and the sow that 
ivas washed, to her wallowing in the mire. 

I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker 
of rhymes. The first of my poetic offspring that saw the light 
was a burlesque lamentation on a quarrel between two reverend 
Calvinists, both of them dramatis personce in my "Holy Fair." 
I had a notion myself that the piece had some merit ; but to 
prevent the worst, I gave a copy of it to a friend who was very 
fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who was 
the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a 
certain description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a 
roar of applause. " Holy Willie's Prayer " next made its ap- 
pearance, and alarmed the kirk-session so much, that they held 
several meetings to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply 
any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. Unluckily 
for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point- 



32 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story 
that gave rise to my printed poem, u The Lament." This was a 
most melancholy affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, 
and had very nearly given me one or two of the principal quali- 
fications for a place among those who have lost the chart and 
mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my part of 
the farm to my brother — in truth it was only nominally mine — 
and made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. 
But before leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to 
publish my poems. I weighed my productions as impartially as 
was in my power : I thought they had merit ; and it was a de- 
licious idea that I should be called a clever fellow, even though 
it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver ; or, per- 
haps, a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world 
of spirits.. I can truly say that pauvre inconnu as I then was, 
I had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works 
as I have at this moment, when the public has decided in their 
favour. It ever was my opinion that the mistakes and blunders, 
both in a rational and religious point of view, of which we see 
thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance of them- 
selves. To know myself had been all along my constant study 
— I weighed myself alone — I balanced myself with others — I 
watched every means of information, to. see how much ground I 
occupied as a man and as a poet — I studied assiduously Nature's 
design in my formation — where the lights and shades in my char- 
acter were intended. I was pretty confident my poems would 
meet with some applause ; but, at the worst, the roar of the 
Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of 
West Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six 
hundred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for about three 
hundred and fifty. My vanity was highly gratified by the re- 
ception I met with from the public ; and besides, I pocketed, all 
expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum came very 
seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money, to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 33 

steerage passage In the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde; 

ibr 

" Hungry ruin had me in the wind." 

I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, 
under all the terrors of a jail : as some ill advised people had 
uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my friends ; my chest was on the road 
to Greenock ; I had composed the last song I should ever mea- 
sure in Caledonia — u The Gloomy Night is Gathering Fast" — 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of mine overthrew 
all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambi- 
tion. The Doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause 
I had not dared to hope. His opinion that I would meet with 
encouragement in Edinburgh for a second edition, fired me so 
much, that away I posted for that city, without a single acquain- 
tance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful star that 
had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed 
me under the patronage of one of the noblest of men — the Earl 
of Glencairn. Oublie moi, Grand Dieu, si jamais je Voublie! 

I need relate no further. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; 
I mingled among many classes of men, but all of them new to 
me, and I was all attention to catch the characters and the man- 
ners living as they rise. Whether I have profited, time will 
show 



84 



CHAPTER II. 

.BURNS'S CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 

The career of Burns in Edinburgh, if short, was brilliant and 
glorious. The learned, the gifted, the noble, and the fashionable 
acknowledged his genius, and paid homage to it. The poet had 
a soul that would not be cased in the conventionality of a social 
mannerism ; he bore himself with native dignity, and compelled 
" society" to acknowledge that he had received his " patent of 
nobility immediately from Almighty God." 

By Glencainrs recommendation, Mr. William Creech, the 
leading publisher in Edinburgh, undertook the publication of a 
second edition of the poems on terms very favourable to Burns. 
By the same nobleman's influence, the " Caledonian Hunt," a 
society of the Scottish nobility and gentry for the promotion of 
field sports, subscribed in a body, and accepted the dedication. 
Dugald Stewart, on returning from his summer retreat in Ayr- 
shire to resume his professional duties in Edinburgh, had carried 
with him a copy of the Kilmarnock edition, which he brought 
under the notice of Mr. Henry Mackenzie, author of The Man 
of Feeling, and then editor of a periodical called The Lounger. 
Mackenzie criticised the poems with decided favour, and so 
helped to extend and heighten their reputation. 

Soon after Burns's arrival in Edinburgh we find him a wel- 
come visitor at Lord Monboddo's, whose beautiful daughter, Miss 
Burnett, he has eulogized so enthusiastically. Here and else- 
where he associated with the most eminent literati of the Scottish 
metropolis. The simple ploughman, by his native sense and 
wit, was fairly and fully a match for them, though these com- 
prised such men as Blair, Robertson, Gregory, Adam Ferguson, 



CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 35 

Mackenzie, Fraser, Tytler, Alison, &c. They were willing to 
acknowledge that they had " scarcely ever met with any man 
whose conversation displayed greater vigour than that of Burns." 

The fashionable world, with the Duchess of Gordon at its 
head, was not behind with its homage to genius. Many a 
brilliant assembly was graced with the ploughman as its brightest 
ornament. Indeed, Burns behaved with greater fascination 
among the gentler sex. They, too, were willing to acknow- 
ledge that he " carried them off their feet" by the force of his 
rare conversational powers. 

Now and again the homage to genius would assume the char- 
acter of the patronage of dependence, and then Burns's proud 
spirit would break through the very courtesies of society, and 
lash the offender against his jealous sense of independence with 
sarcasm or satire. From this it has been said by an English 
critic,* that pride was the key to the personal character of 
Burns, often manifesting itself in arrogance and injustice. Pride 
he had undoubtedly, but it was the pride of a man — an honest 
uncompromising pride, that scorned the arrogance and injustice 
of those who dared to obtrude their petty conventional honours 
or social position before one who knew their unreality. Selfish- 
ness of any kind was not an ingredient in the character of Burns. 
If he found a man noble in soul as well as in position, like Daer 
or Glencairn, he did not hesitate to eulogize him as heartily as 
he dared to curse the high-born bigot of " blood." Even his 
readiness to give honour where honour was due, incites this 
captious critic to charge him with immense adulation and cring- 
ing parasitism. Burns's moral stature was too great for this 
mean critic to measure, for we also find him preferring the charge 
that the love-poetry of Burns is, for the most part, desire, set 
to music. His love is not platonic certainly, but as certainly it 
is not desire — it is the love of human passion burning with the 
warmth of affection, not with the hot fever of desire. 

While Burns was charming the grandees of rank, fashion, and 
learning, he was so poor in purse as to content himself with a 

* Rev. R. A. Willmott, 



36 MEMOIR OF BURXS. 

share of an old comrade's room and bed. This friend, John 
Richmond, the quondam clerk of Gavin Hamilton, his earliest 
patron, Burns, on his first arrival, had sought out, and, on his 
friend frankly offering the accommodation, had as frankly 
accepted it. Could he have had a better memento of the hum- 
bug of the glitter of life than the daily passage from the saloons 
of the great to the humble lodging of his friend? 

So far Burns conformed himself to the society in which he now 
found himself as to change his costume, which was at first that of 
a plain country farmer, to a more fashionable suit of blue and 
buff, with buckskins and topboots. This is the garb in which he 
has always been remembered during his Edinburgh career. This 
is the dress imwhich Xasmyth painted him, and Beugo engraved 
him for the prefatory portrait of the second edition. And here, 
that we may fully realize the man, let us peruse Professor Walker's 
life-like description of him as he appeared at this time : — " His 
person, though strong and well knit, was rather coarse in its 
outline. His stature, from want of setting up, appeared to be 
only of the middle size, but was rather above it. His motions 
were firm and decided, and«though without any pretensions to 
grace, were at the same time so free from clownish restraint, as 
to show that he had not always been confined to the society of 
his profession. His countenance was not of that elegant cast 
which is most frequent among the upper ranks, but it was manly 
and intelligent, and marked by a thoughtful gravity, which 
shaded at times into sternness. In his large dark eye the most 
striking index of his genius resided. It was full of mind ; and 
would have been singularly expressive under the management 
of one who could employ it with more art for the purpose of 
expression. He was plainly but properly dressed, in a style 
midway between the holiday costume of a farmer and that of 
the company with which he now associated. His black hair, 
without powder, at a time when it was very generally worn, was 
tied behind and spread upon his forehead, Upon the whole, 
from his person, physiognomy, and dress, had I met him near a 
seaport, and been required to guess his condition, I should have 



CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 37 

probably conjectured him to be the master of a merchant vessel 
of the most respectable class. In no part of his manner was 
there the slightest degree of affectation, nor could a stranger 
have suspected, from anything in his behaviour or conversation, 
that he had been for some months the favourite of all the 
fashionable circles of a metropolis. In conversation he was 
powerful. His conceptions and expression were of correspond- 
ing vigour, and on all subjects were as remote as possible from 
common places. Though somewhat authoritative, it was in a 
way which gave little offence, and was readily imputed to his 
inexperience in those modes of smoothing dissent and soften- 
ing assertion, which are important characteristics of polished 
manners." 

This description by Professor Walker may be relied on, as he 
had many opportunities of meeting Burns, and it is strongly 
corroborated by that of Sir Walter Scott : — " His person was 
strong and robust, his manners rustic, not clownish — a sort of 
dignified plainness and simplicity, which received part of its 
effect, perhaps, from one's knowledge of his extraordinary 
talents. His features are represented in Xasmyth's picture, but 
to me it conveys an idea that they ire diminished, as if seen in 
perspective. I think his countenance was more massive than it 
looks in any of its portraits. I would have taken the poet, had 
I not known who he was, for a very sagacious country farmer of 
the old Scotch school ; i. e., none of your modern agriculturists 
who keep labourers for their drudgery, but the douce gudeman 
who held his own plough. There was a strong expression of 
sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments ; the eye alone, I 
think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It 
was large, and of a dark cast, and glowed (I say literally glowed) 
when he spoke with feeling or interest. I never saw such another 
eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished 
men in my time. His conversation expressed the most perfect 
self-confidence, without the slightest presumption. Among the 
men who were the most learned of their time and country, he 
expressed himself with perfect firmness, but without the least 



38 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

intrusive forwardness ; and when he differed in opinion, he did 
not hesitate to express it firmly, yet at the same time with 
modesty." 

Though Burns was mixing in such splendid society, his native 
good sense and reasonable pride secured him from the danger 
of having his head turned. He measured his successes with 
astonishing coolness of judgment, and seriously thought of the 
time when he would have to retire into rustic life, which indeed 
was his natural sphere of existence. On the 15th of January, 
1787, he thus addressed Mrs. Dunlop :— u You are afraid I shall 
grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, 
I know myself and the world too well. I do not mean any airs 
of affected modesty ; I am willing to believe that my abilities 
deserve some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age 
and nation, when poetry is, and has been, the study of men of 
the first natural genius, aided with all the powers of polite 
learning polite books, and polite company — to be dragged forth 
to the full glare of learned and polite observation, with all my 
imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished ideas 
on my head — I assure you, madam, I do not dissemble, when I 
tell you, I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet 
in my obscure situation, without any of those advantages which 
are reckoned necessary for that character, at least at this time 
of day, has raised a partial tide of public notice, which has borne 
me to a height where I am absolutely, feelingly certain, my abili- 
ties are inadequate to support me ; and too surely do I see that 
time, when the same tide will leave me, and recede, perhaps, as 

far below the mark of truth I mention this once 

for all, to disburden my mind, and I do not wish to hear or say 
any more about it. But, 'when proud fortune's ebbing tide 
recedes,' you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame 
was at the highest, I stood unintoxicated with the inebriating 
cup in my hand, looking forward with rueful resolve." 

Burns was more in danger of receiving harm from another 
position in which he found himself placed, and to which he was 
drawn by strong natural inclination. Convivial clubs and 



CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 39 

masonic fraternities flourished amongst all classes of society. At 
these festivities, Burns could meet all upon a recognized equality. 
There the cleverest man was the foremost, and the best man the 
most respected. Burns was a born convivialist — a born mason, 
and, save in the transports of love, his genius never shone so 
brilliantly as over the flowing bowl, or amid the manly feelings 
of " brothership." But with a firmness which astonishes, when 
we think of his after infirmity of purpose, he held aloof, and was 
saved for the time. He has, indeed, been accused of excess, but 
the grounds are too unsubstantial to found so serious a charge 
upon them. Dugald Stewart says with reference to this — "Not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the preceding winter 
of Burns's predilection for convivial and not very select society, 
I should have concluded in favour of his habits of sobriety, from 
all of him that fell under my own observation. He told me 
indeed himself, that the weakness of his stomach was such as to 
deprive him entirely of any merit in his temperance." Heron, 
it is true, has " peached" upon him, and deponed to having been 
himself " on the spree" with Burns, but probably this was 
limited to an exceptional escapade or so, or more probably 
Heron himself would be so drunk, as to draw upon his imagina- 
tion for his recollection of how far Burns was " gone ; " for it is 
a well known fact, that the whole genus of " boon companions" 
to which the unfortunate Heron undoubtedly belonged, tell 
magnificent lies in their sober senses of what has happened in 
their cups, and believe it themselves most faithfully. That he 
drank moderately is what we could not but expect from the 
circumstance of his position: we only mean to give him the 
benefit of the charity he himself was so lavish of to others, and 
conclude that he was not in the habit of overstepping the bounds 
of moderation. 

Burns underwent a rigid scrutiny from the metropolitans, and 
he paid them back in their own coin. His natural penetration 
was too keen to be blinded by a learned look, a haughty bear- 
ing, or the glitter of a fashion. " One of the poet's remarks," 
says Cromek, "when he first came to Edinburgh, was, that 



40 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

between the men of rustic life and the polite world he observed 
little difference; that in the former, though unpolished by 
fashion, and unenlightened by science, he had found much 
observation and intelligence." He thus gauges the most 
polished litterateur amongst them — " It is not easy forming an 
exact judgment of any one ; but in my opinion, Dr. Blair is 
merely an astonishing proof of what industry and application 
can do. Natural parts like his are frequently to be met with ; 
his vanity is proverbially known among his own acquaintances ; 
but he is justly at the head of what may be called fine writing, 
and a critic of the first, the very first rank in prose ; even in 
poetry, a hard of nature's making only can take the pas of him. 
He has a heart not of the very finest water, but far from being 
an ordinary one. In short, he is a truly worthy and most 
respectable character." Call not the unlearned ploughman's 
criticism ignorant presumption. His great thinking soul, by the 
intuitive inspiration of genius, had speculated more deeply and 
divinely than the cleverest metaphysician amongst them. Poetry 
of the quality which flowed from his soul is derived from the 
same lofty springs of thought where divine philosophy finds 
her purest and holiest sources. His powerful intuition was more 
than a match for their guarded experience and subtle reflec- 
tion. His keen penetration and grasp of judgment detected the 
quality and weighed the quantity of all their pretensions. He 
measured their stature from a standpoint which commanded 
theirs. " He manifested," says Lockhart, "in the whole strain 
of his bearing and conversation, a most thorough conviction, 
that in the society of the most eminent men of his nation, he 
was exactly where he was entitled to be; hardly deigned to 
flatter them by exhibiting even an occasional symptom of being 
flattered by their notice ; by turns calmly measured himself 
against the most cultivated understandings of his time in dis- 
cussion ; overpowered the oon mots of the most celebrated 
convivialists by broad floods of merriment, impregnated with 
all the burning life of genius ; astounded persons habitually 
enveloped in the thrice -piled folds of social reserve, by com- 



CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 41 

pelling them to tremble, nay to tremble visibly, beneath the 
fearless touch of natural pathos ; and all this without indicating 
the smallest willingness to be ranked among those professional 
ministers of excitement, who are content to be paid in money 
and smiles, for doing what the spectators and auditors would 
be ashamed of doing in their own persons, even if they had the 
power of doing it." 

Burns saw that much of the homage paid him was but fashion 
without substantial reality. He well remarked in a letter to Dr. 
Currie, u I have formed many intimacies and friendships here, 
hut I am afraid they are all of too tender a construction to hear 
carriage a hundred and fifty miles" The neglected grave of 
Ferguson had been a grand lesson to him in this respect. The 
verses he wrote under Ferguson's portrait indicate how deeply 
the fact of the world's ungrateful neglect had engraved itself 
upon his mind : — 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleased, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 

How gloriously the genius of Burns shines when he uses it to 
conserve the neglected genius of his brother bard. " This 
burial place is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of 
Robert Ferguson." For ever, assuredly, as Burns's genius, like 
Shakspere's, exists for all time. 

Meanwhile the poems had been very successful, which brought 
a good deal of ready money into his hands. !N~ow he had the 
means of gratifying in some measure a deeply cherished wish, 
thus fervently disclosed to Mrs. Dunlop in a letter : — " I have 
no dearer aim than to have it in my power, unplagued with the 
routine of business—for which, Heaven knows, I am unfit 
enough — to make leisurely pilgrimages through Caledonia ; to 
eit on the fields of her battles, to wander on the romantic banks 



42 MEMOIR OF BURNS, 

of her rivers, and to muse by the stately towers or venerable 
ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes." His first tour 
was to the south, part of which was made in company with a 
young friend, Mr. Robert Ainsley, who had got a fortnight's 
leave of absence to visit his relations in Berwickshire. They 
set out on horseback, and among other notable places, visited 
the romantic scenes on the banks of the Tweed, the Teviot, and 
the Ettrick. He then took a short dash across the border into 
Xorthumberland, returning by Dumfries to Mauchline. Here 
he was received with joy and pride by his mother, brothers, 
and sisters. Xo wonder, considering the change. He had left 
them a poor skulking fugitive ; he returned the acknowledged 
prince of Scottish song to whom the noblest and the fairest had 
paid homage. He brought with him, moreover, solid golden 
tribute to his fame, which we dare say they could appreciate 
more substantially. He now renewed his intimacy with Jean 
Armour, who had never altogether been banished from his 
heart. 

At this time he undertook a short tour to the Western High- 
lands, of which there is little record. It only extended as far as 
Inverary, by Dumbarton and Lochlomond. Returning to 
Mossgiel, he spent a month or so renewing his old acquaintance- 
ships. Thereafter he returned to Edinburgh, whence he set out 
on another tour in company with Dr. Adair, of Harrowgate. 
They went by Linlithgow and Carron to Stirling, where they fell 
in with Mr. William Xicol, a teacher in the High School of 
Edinburgh, a man of genial disposition, but somewhat coarse 
manners, whom Burns soon took a strong liking for, doubtless on 
account of his peculiar ''character." From Stirling they went 
to Harvieston in the vale of Devon, occupied at that time by 
the mother of his early friend and patron, Gavin Hamilton. 
Here they stayed for some days, making short excursions to the 
beautiful scenery of the neighbourhood, as Castle Campbell, the 
Eumblin' Brig, and the Caldron Linn. Dr. Adair seems to 
have admired more than the scenery, for now commenced an 
attachment betwixt him and Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, 



CAREER IN EDINBURGH. 43 

which in the course of time ripened into a union for life. To 
this lovely spot, also, did the thoughts of Burns recur in his last 
illness. The last song he composed was in honour of the "Fairest 
Maid on Devon Banks." They also visited Mrs. Bruce of 
Clackmannan, a venerable old lady, who formally knighted 
them with the veritable helmet and sword of the renowned hero 
of Bannockburn. They returned by Dunfermline to Edin- 
burgh, whence he soon set out on a more extensive tour to 
the North Highlands. 

This time he was accompanied by Mr. Nicol. After travelling 
about six hundred miles, in the course of which he visited the 
most classical scenery of the North Countrie, he returned to 
Edinburgh, where he spent the ensuing winter. Now began 
that brilliant correspondence with Clarinda, whose passion often 
reminds one of Rousseau's La Nouvelle Heloise. The occasion of 
it was this. They had been introduced, at the special desire of the 
lady, by a common friend. Burns was soon after to have taken 
tea with her at her own house, but, the evening before, he was 
overturned in a hackney coach by a drunken driver, and bruised 
severely in one of his knees. Confined to the house he had to 
content himself with a note of apology. Clarinda, whose real 
name was Mrs. M'Lehose, was a lady of a voluptuous turn of 
form, and lively engaging manners, about the same age as 
himself. She was married, but her husband had heartlessly 
deserted her and was now abroad in the Y\ r est Indies, with not 
a care or a thought for his wife or children. No part of Burns's 
conduct has been more blamed than this. We feel not for the 
heartless husband, but the injured face pf poor Jean Armour 
rises before us, and cools the ardour of cmr admiration of this 
passionate exhibition of natural feeling. The violated morale 
of society, too, denounces the imprudence of the attachment, 
though Clarinda seems to have preserved her dignity, and in- 
spired him with respect as well as passion. Their personal cir- 
cumstances and the manners of the time are pleaded in their 
favour, but principles must not be made to bend to convention, 
and principle must condemn even while charity may palliate. 



44 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

If in this correspondence Burns's genius shone brilliant!}', 
his moral sense was blotched with a stain which he attempted 
to varnish over at the time, but which rusted there till he 
erased it by his after conduct. Jean Armour he professed to 
have cast off, and even to have taken her solemn promise, — 
" never to attempt any claim upon me as a husband, even 
though any one should persuade her she had such a claim, 
which she had not, neither during my life nor after my death.'' 
Passion seemed to have blinded his reason, for now Jean was 
about to present him with another pledge of affection. As soon 
as her parents knew it, thev drove her from her home in the 
middle of winter. The poor creature, at Burns's request, was 
sheltered by a friend, the wife of the miller of Tarbolton, alluded 
to in " Death and Dr. Hornbook." Burns afterwards lodged 
her at Mauchline ? and ultimatelv prevailed upon her mother 
to attend her accoucJiement. 

At length Creech gave him a final settlement, which left a 
goodly sum in his hands. Notwithstanding the great expendi- 
ture he had indulged in, he found the round sum of five hundred 
pounds in his hands. Two hundred of this he immediately sent 
to his brother Gilbert, in loan ; with the remainder he deter- 
mined to stock a farm and resume his former occupation. 



CHAPTER in. 

THE CLOSE OF BURNS'S CAREER. 

The morning of Burns's literary life shone bright and clear, 
the noon was dazzlingly splendid, but the evening, when his 
great spirit passed away from the earth which it had glorified, 
was gloomy with storm. Seeing no course open to him for the 
future but that from which he had come, he bravely gathered 
together the substantial golden opinions he had bought of the 
Edinburgh gentry, and "went at" the world and its difficulties 
like a man. His first step was indeed manly — he went formally 
through the civil ceremony of marriage with Jean Armour. He 
then entered into a contract with Mr. Miller of Dalswinton for 
a lease of the farm of Ellisland. Allan Cunningham thus 
describes it : — " Ellisland is beautifully situated on the south side 
of the Nith, some six miles above Dumfries : it joins the grounds 
of Friars' Carse on the north-west, the estate of Isle towards 
the south-east, the great road from Glasgow separates it from 
the hills of Duncore, while the Nith, a pure stream, running 
over the purest gravel, divides it from the holms and groves of 
Dalswinton. The farm amounts to upwards of a hundred acres 
and is part holm and part croft land ; the former a deep rich 
loam, bears fine tall crops of wheat ; the latter, though two- 
thirds stony, on a bottom of gravel, yields, when carefully culti- 
vated, good crops both of potatoes and corn ; yet, to a stranger, 
the soil must have looked unpromising or barren ; and Burns 
declared, after a shower had fallen on a field of new- sown and 
new-rolled barley, that it looked liked a paved street." Hav- 
ing entered into possession he set industriously to work. The 
steading was in a ruinous state, and had to be rebuilt before he 



46 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

could house his wife and child. In time this was done, and his 
family brought home. Burns was happy and hopeful. But the 
much desired and long looked for commission of gauger, by 
distracting his efforts, disordered his affairs, and in course of 
time thoroughly wrecked them. The u society," too, by which he 
was surrounded, and which eagerly courted his conversation, 
tended to withdraw his attention from the care of his farm. It 
soon ended by his throwing up his lease and removing to the 
town of Dumfries, where he supported his family on his income 
as officer of Excise. This was indeed slender, but he expected 
promotion, and therefore waited patiently. 

But he waited in vain. Certain political sentiments, rather 
freely expressed, and suspiciously misunderstood, laid him open 
to the censure of the government, and endangered even the 
situation he possessed. Disappointed and disheartened, he 
dragged out his gifted being in an office every way peculiarly 
unfitted for him. Yet he was ever making his country richer 
with the rare wealth of his genius. What would Scottish song- 
have been without this one man? And his country starved 
him. Strangers sought his company that they might boast 
having taken a social glass with him. Their kindness helped to 
kill him. His constitution broke down under the repeated 
attacks of a nervous disorder, which baffled the utmost efforts 
of medical skill and careful nursing. At length, after thirty- 
eight years of tenure, his great spirit gave up the lease of its 
earthly life into the hands of the Great Disposer of our fortunes. 
Peace to his ashes, and rest to his soul ! 

The life and character of Robert Burns have been so assailed 
by detraction and bigotry, that many bold and right-thinking 
minds are not yet free of a certain secret impression of a some- 
thing fearfully wrong, morally, with our national poet. Although 
their reasons, when tested, are found to be narrowly founded, 
considering the circumstances in which the man was placed, 
they still cling to their impression with the blind faith of pre- 
judice ; and while they cannot deny the light in him, declare, ia 



CLOSE OF HIS CAREER. 47 

no measured terms, the darkness which clouds it. Not a few 
also run to the other extreme, and worship our bard as faultless, 
under the dangerous idea that his genius consecrates his very 
failings. In their adoration they convert his poetical into literal 
license, carrying out to the very verge of brutish indulgence 
those sentiments which were meant by him to be mere humour. 
We refer particularly to his glowing encomiums on " Gude Scots 
Drink," his most rapturous verses on which were written years 
before he had given the most abstemious just cause of offence. 
M Scots Drink" was to his mind as good a theme of inspiration as 
the more classic "Wine, the acknowledged theme of all lyric poets, 
holding divided empire with Love. It served, unconsciously to 
him, as a disguise for the inspiration of the divinity within him — 
was a specious medium through which he seemingly ignored the 
ego that reigns strongly, and yet in the highest sense, modestly, 
in every man of imaginative genius. A soul like his of so tender 
a sensibility, required no artificial stimulus to put strength into 
its soaring wing. 

All that he has sung in commendation of the glory of drinking 
must be regarded merely as an encomium on the social spirit in 
man, which was so exuberant in his own large -hearted nature, 
that his Genius of inspiration could alone adequately convey 
the yearnings, the impulses, the generous outspoken poetical 
extravagances of the boundless spirit of sociality which reigned 
in that strong, gentle, loving, manly spirit of his. Again, there 
is a strong dash of native humour in the Scottish mind, which, 
of course, has transfused itself into the idioms of our language. 
Now Burns's genius was pre-eminently humorous, and not only 
seized on and assimilated to itself, in the ardour of an ever- 
pwaying fancy, the most forcible points of any subject, but 
swam on in the buoyancy of its laughing or bitter floods of 
humour, to what, perhaps, in a strict sense, might be called the 
extreme. 

One of our greatest delights in connection with literary genius 
is in thinking of Burns — realizing him as a positive personal 
identity — the man with brawny shoulders, slightly bent, through 



48 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

ceaseless and excessive toil — guiding his team a-field, and 
jocundly glorying in the skilful direction and hopeful triumph 
of the generous plough; or stalking tentiiy over his well-cleaned 
furrows, measuredly and wistfully sowing, casting abroad the 
yellow grain ; or, with his stalwart arm, reaping yon " rig 
a-head, 1 ' for even there he leads ; or binding merrily for change 
of toil, singing or whistling with glee. He seems at first sight 
a man in no way note-worthy beside his fellows ; but look again, 
and is there not a something in that large, dark, keen, fascinating 
eye, which the veriest boor would note, and feel moving him to 
respect, reverence, or fear ? Yes ; that eye, filled with a rare 
light, and beaming with inspiration, sheds lustre, or grace, or 
terror on all who come within its range; that eye proclaims 
him, to those who can read it aright, the bearer of a divine 
gift — the elected for some high mission in the realms of thought 
— a royal mission from the great court of Nature, where merit 
alone receives distinction. Of that man now, the then despised 
and rejected, 

" Fame holds her golden clarion to her lips, 
And sounds his praises over all the world." 

Fancy him on that wild and lonely moor, with storm and 
thunder about him, towering into his great mood — how the 
kindling glory blazes in that dark eye! By some inscrutable 
association, the tide of historic memories sweeps across his brain ; 
Bannockburn arrests his imagination — his muse swells with the 
conception — his soul at a thought cancels centuries of time; — 
Bruce and the field of Bannockburn are before his mind's eye — 
his soul is on its throne — and hence, "Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace 
bled!" 

Happy, thrice happy, is that man in whom the elements that 
constitute the glory of the human being are so mixed up and 
blended, that while his mind, by a fine instinct, ranges the 
higher spheres of contemplation, the heart, with all its tender 
and noble affections, assimilates itself through the force of its 
own liking, in the eye of the soul's election, only to the good, 
the true, the beautiful! But the integrity of our first or 



CLOSE OF HIS CAREER. 49 

youthful aspirations is subject to be modified by the circum- 
stances by which we are surrounded, superinducing accidental 
qualifications of observation and thought ; and hence are gene- 
rated certain habitual associations of ideas which become almost 
so much part and parcel of our being, that our original nature is 
more or less elevated or abased, glorified or suborned by them. 
The world in the aggregate has always been a prosy world. 
To spirits of a fine sensibility, it wears a cold and formal eye. 
The everlasting bustling and jostling for the advancement of 
self, shocks the sensitive mind, and it retires dashed and sad- 
dened into its own inner enjoyment chambers, or falls back for 
sympathy into the company of a chosen few, whom it has found, 
or believes, to be possessed of that individuality, that manly and 
generous turn of mind in thought and action, which it pines 
after. From this cause seems to have sprung the boundless 
sociality, which formed so characteristic and overswaying a 
feature in the impulsive nature of Burns. He had no sym- 
pathy or patience with wealthy, or learned, or titled formality 
and finesse. He had an eye that penetrated through the hol- 
low and imposing masques of monied selfishness, learned dull- 
ness, or titled arrogance. He would not stoop to humour, or 
work to selfish worldly ends — natures to which his own felt so 
repugnant. This species of tactics, which so many consider the 
highest wisdom, his manly independent mind revolted from. 
Hence Burns and his fortunes were never taken very earnestly 
in hand by any one of his wealthy, or learned, or illustrious 
patrons and admirers. Could he have mounted a little of the 
furnishings of the artful hypocrite, or the pliant sycophant, 
he might have slipped into the robes and dignity of some 
lucrative office. But no; he was contented to remain poor 
and laborious, rather than accept of riches and ease on such 
humiliating conditions. AYho would have wished it to have 
been otherwise ? Burns lacked the dexterous management of 
his great parts to slip into the robes of great titles. His gifts 
were too glorious to be hid even under such a bushel. He had 
a higher and a holier mission to fulfil. He knew it ; felt it with 



50 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

the fervour of a revealed truth. Hear him speak for himself in 
such a strain of noble consciousness as a truly great soul alone 
dared utter : — 

" The Poetic Genius of my country found me, as the prophetic 
bard, Elijah, did Elisha — at the Plough ; and threw her inspir- 
ing mantle over me. She bade me sing the loves, the joys, the 
rural scenes, and rural pleasures of my native soil, in my native 
tongue : I tuned my wild artless notes as she inspired." 

Was this not a glorious destiny — a pre-eminence more to be 
coveted than the highest dignities of the realm — to soar forth in 
the plenitude of his soul's great powers, " clad in his singing 
robes," and become the 

11 High Priest of Scottish song ! 

That could alternately impart 
Delight and rapture to his page ; 

Or brand each vice in satire strong ; 
His truths electrify the sage ; 

His lines are mottos of the heart :"* 

It was allowed by men of mind, of the gravest and soundest 
judgment, that Burns was capable, in mental energy, for what 
has been styled with laconic brevity "anything." His patrons 
were rich and powerful — above all, u had influence ; " and what 
did they do for him? ISTothing. Did they even exert their 
interest for him ? "N~o ; it was to a comparatively humble but 
zealous friend that he was indebted even for the soul-and-body- 
keep-togetker post of — a gaugership ! 

Burns had a social mission conjoined with his universal one. 
By the light of his clear intellect — by a kind of intuition bred of 
his intellectual powers — he saw the brightness and the freedom 
of a " coming day." His was one of those tall towering intellects 
that receive and reflect u the dawning ray" of a truer and 
brighter civilization. 

How many take advantage of the wide-spread feast which his 
genius has prepared freely for all — regale themselves at his sump- 

* Ode to Bums— Campbell's Works. 



CLOSE OF HIS CAREER. 51 

tuous and yet simple board — furnished with wine of the rarest 
vintage, fruits of the sweetest flavour, and flowers of the loveliest 
hue — how many so regale themselves, and turning on their 
heel, sneer at his hospitality, and characterize him as a bold, 
talented, poisoning, bad man ? Yes ; he who broached for them 
the deepest fount of his most precious heartVblood, and poured 
out for them the spirit of his finest inspiration, has the dregs — 
for all things here below, however pure, have dregs — of his 
great feast cast into his face as an expression of their gratitude. 
They have banqueted with a true prince hi the dominion of 
mind, and in their envious and malignant " asides" proclaim 
indeed this one thing alone — their own unworthiness. 

We can boast of other poets who, perhaps, take a more entire 
possession of the head; but none — not even our illustrious 
Scott, who commands so wide and varied a range of sympathies, 
nor our scarcely less celebrated bard, Campbell, who has struck 
full many a noble chord within us — who take such entire pos- 
session of the heart ; — none who have given to us so many or so 
profound touches of our common nature — touches, one of which, 
as the poet for all time has expressed it, u makes the whole 
world kin." This is an attribute of the great in Poetic Power 
and Art, over which the waves of ages may sweep, but which 
they cannot wash away. Manners and customs may change — 
modes of thinking may change — but these touches— these burst3 
of feeling and emotion — are what constitute the immortality of 
poetic genius. That Nature, in the poems of Burns, has realized 
one of these great geniuses, the intelligent of the civilized world 
acknowledge. Like Shakspere, he felt and wrote for all man- 
kind. In his poetry we' have the whole length and breadth, 
the wonderful machinery, the hidden springs and motions, of 
that being— called Man. 

Not for the ostentation of his art did he wed himself to it, 
but for the magic power mind through it wields. His true- 
toned harp was no hireling to sound obsequious lays. His hand 
that swept the lyre never traduced it with mercenary pulse, bci 
as the minister of a heart beating high with Freedom, Glory y 



52 MEMOIR OF BURNS. 

Love. He proclaimed the true dignity of man, irrespective of 
wealth, office, or rank. Sprung from the peasant class himself, 
he taught the humbler classes, by his sturdy independence of 
character and manliness of mind, true self-respect, in the gener- 
ous and elevating sense of the word, thus educating the general 
mind to the embracement of higher and nobler views of man's 
condition and resources. He taught them, that, though they 
were poor, they might still hold their heads erect, and be 
manly and independent — that, though their lot was laborious, 
they had souls within them which could observe, and think, and 
soar : slaves to no titled, or wealthy, or official, or crowned 
dictator ; but, free as the air, the wind, the light, that pay no 
homage, owe no allegiance to other than — Truth and God. 



BURNS'S FAME. 



On the 26th of July, 1796, the earthly remains of Robert Burns 
were committed to the grave. He perished, for he can hardly 
be said simply to have died, amidst the vexing circumstance of 
an ungenial destiny. But no sooner was he beyond the power 
of all human benefit, than the whole nation lamented his untimely 
death, and their irreparable loss. The spirit of the bard, how- 
ever, if cognizant of the events of its former stage of action, and 
if earthly fame can affect it in its new state of being, must now 
be thoroughly appeased, and proudly gratified. He is now the 
acknowledged Laureate of Scottish song, and is mentioned by 
the greatest critics in the same breath with Shakspere, Dante, 
and Homer — that is, his genius is now recognized as of the 
highest order. 

As the attention we bestow upon a work is seriously qualified 
by our opinion of the power of the artist, it will not be out of 
place here to state a few of the criticisms which have been given 
by men gifted with a high order of powers themselves. This 
is bare justice, for it is but judging a man by his peers, who 
alone are capable of understanding his position and all its cir- 
cumstances from stand-points elevated enough, and with vision 
keen and clear enough. 

" Burns," says Lockhart, " short and painful as were his years, 
has left behind him a volume in which there is inspiration for 
every fancy, and music for every mood, which lives, and will 
live, in strength and vigour c to soothe,' as a generous lover of 
genius (Sir Egerton Brydges) has said, 'the sorrows of how 



54 BURNS'S FAME. 

many a lover, to inflame the patriotism of how many a soldier, 
to fan the fires of how many a genius, to disperse the gloom of 
solitude, appease the agonies of pain, encourage virtue, and 
show vice its ugliness ! ' — a volume in which, centuries hence, as 
now, wherever a Scotsman may wander, he will find the dearest 
consolation of his exile, Already, in the language of Childe 
Harold, has 

; Glory without end 

Scatter'd the clouds away, and on that name attend 

The tears and praises of all time ! ' " 

"Burns," says Professor Wilson, "was, in many respects, 
born at a happy time — happy for a man of genius like him, but 
fatal and hopeless to the more common mind, a whole world of 
life lay before him, whose inmost recesses and darkest nooks, 
and sunniest eminences, he had familiarly trodden from his. 
childhood. All that would be felt could be made his own. Xo 
conqueror had overrun its fertile provinces, and it was for him 
to be crowned supreme over all the 

4 Lyric singers of that high-soul'd land.' 

The crown that he has won can never be removed from his head." 
Thomas Campbell, in his Ode to the Memory of Burns, thus 
characterizes his genius ; — 

" Re was the chief of bards that swell 
The heart with songs of social flame 
And high delicious revelry. 

And love's own strain to him was given 

To warble all its ecstacies 

With Pythian words, unsought, unwilled, 

Love, the surviving gift of heaven, 

The choicest sweet of Paradise 

In life's else bitter cup distilled. 

Who that has melted o'er his lay- 
To Mary's soul in heaven above, 
But pictured sees in fancy strong, 
The landscape and the livelong day 



BUPwNS'S FAME. 55 

That smiled upon their mutual love, — 
Who, that has felt, forgets the song ? 

Nor skilled one flame above to fan 
His country's high-souled peasantry ; 
What patriot pride he taught ; — how much 
To weigh the inborn worth of man ! 
And rustic life and poverty 
Grew beautiful beneath his touch. 

On Bannock field what thoughts arouse 

The swain whom Burns's song inspires ? 

Beat not his Caledonian veins, 

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs, 

With all the spirit of his sires, 

And all their scorn of death and chains ? 

And see the Scottish exile, tanned 
By many a far and foreign clime, 
Bend o'er his home-born verse and weep 
In memory of his native land, 
With love that scorns the lapse of time, 
And ties that stretch beyond the deep. 

Encamped by Indian rivers wild, 

The soldier, resting on his arms, 

In Burns's carol sweet recalls 

The scenes that blest him when a child, 

And glows and gladdens at the charms 

Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls. 

It is the muse that consecrates 
The native banner of the brave, 
Unfurling at the trumpet's breath 
Rose, thistle, harp — 'tis she elates 
To sweep the field or ride the wave ; 
A sunburst in the storm of death." 

Coleridge styles Burns 

" Nature's own heloved hard" 
and adds, most sarcastically, 

" Who to the 4 Illustrious of his native land 
So properly did look' for patronage.' 



56 BURNS'S FAME. 

Ghost of Maecenas! hide thy blushing face! 
They snatched him from the sickle and the plough 
To guage ale firkins." 

"Wordsworth acknowledges him as one of his sesthetic instruc- 
tors, and sings with deep sympathy — 

" Of him who walked in glory and in joy 
Behind his plough upon the mountain-side." 

Curran speaks of u the sublime morality of Burns ;" and this 
suggests the strong language of the Rev. John Skinner, the 
author of the celebrated song of Tullocligorum : — 

" Your bonnie bookie, line by line, 
IVe read, and think it freely fine ; 
Indeed I darena ca't divine, 

As others might ; 
For that, ye ken, frae pen like mine, 

"Wad no be right." 

It would be folly to imagine that these eulogists are blind to 
his failings and sins. When they mention them, they show 
their large -hear tedness by looking upon them " more in sorrow 
than in anger." 

Thomas Carlyle, the predominating British intellect of the 
time, has spent perhaps the best and most intelligible effort of 
his genius in a critical estimate of the powers and character of 
Burns. u The excellence of Burns," says he, u is indeed among 
the rarest, whether in poetry or prose ; but, at the same time, 
it is plain and easily recognized — it is his sincerity— his indis- 
putable air of truth. ... A virtue as of green fields and 
mountain breezes dwells in his poetry, — it is redolent of natural 
life, and of handy, natural men. There is a decisive strength in 
him, and yet frequently a sweet native gracefulness. He is 
tender and he is vehement ; yet, without constraint or any 
visible effort. He melts the heart or inflames it with a power 
which seems habitual and familiar to him. We see in him the 
gentleness, though trembling pity, of a woman, with the deep 
earnestness, the force and passionate ardour of the hero. Tears 



BURNS'S FAME. 57 

lie in him, and consuming fire, as lightning lurks in the drops of 
the summer cloud. He has a consonance in his bosom for every 
note of human feeling; the high and the low — the sad and 
the ludicrous — the mournful and the joyful, are welcome in 
their turns to his all-conceiving spirit. And thus with what a 
prompt and eager force he grasps his subject, be it what it 
may ! How he fixes, as it were, the full image of the matter in 
his eye, full and clear in every lineament, and catches the real 
type and essence of it among a thousand accidents and super- 
ficial circumstances, — no one of which misleads him. If there is 
aught of reason or truth to be discovered, there is no sophistry, 
no vain surface logic detains him ; quick, resolute, unerring, he 
pierces into the marrow of the question, and speaks his verdict 
with an emphasis that cannot be forgotten. Is it of descrip- 
tion? — some visual object to be represented? "No poet of any 
age or nation is more graphic than Burns. The characteristic 
features disclose themselves to him at a glance. Three lines 
from his hand and we have a likeness. . . . Burns, again, is 
not more distinguished by the clearness than by the impetuous 
force of his conceptions, — of the strength, the piercing em- 
phasis with which he thought, his emphasis of expression may 
give a humble, but the readiest proof. Who ever uttered sharper 
sayings than his ? Who ever uttered words — words more memor- 
able, either by their burning vehemence, their cool vigour, or 
their laconic pith? A single phrase depicts a whole subject — 
a whole scene. ' Our Scottish forefathers,' he says, ' struggled 
forward in this battle-field, red-wat-shodj giving in this one term 
a full vision of horror and carnage, perhaps too frightfully 
accurate for art. . . . While the Shaksperes and Miltons 
roll on like mighty rivers through the country of Thought, 
bearing fleets of traffickers and assiduous pearl-fishers on their 
waves, this little Valclusa Fountain will also arrest our eye ; for 
this also is of Nature's own and most cunning workmanship, 
bursts from the depths of the earth, with a full gushing current 
into the light of day ; and often will the traveller turn aside to 
drink of the clear waters, and muse among its rocks and pines." 



58 BURNS'S FAME. 

But high though his position be amongst the nobility ot 
Thought, he is essentially the beloved bard of the people. The 
enthusiastic demonstrations in honour of the Centenary of the 
Poet's birth-day, held on the 25th of January, 1859, stand 
without a parallel in the history of Literature. Not Scotsmen 
only, but Englishmen, Irishmen, and Americans, joined the 
general acclamation in praise of the charms of his verse, and the 
"humanity" of his thoughts. An American critic had already 
proclaimed him to be a "high priest of nature, whose oracles 
speak even from the chambers of death ; " but this u Centenary" 
was the occasion of the following splendid estimate by the sharpest 
thinker of the time — Ealph Waldo Emerson — at the demonstra- 
tion in Boston. 

Ealph Waldo Emerson, in giving u The Memory of Burns," 
said, — "We are here to hold our parliament with love and 
poesy, as men were wont to do in the Middle Ages. Those 
famous parliaments might or might not have had more stateli- 
ness, and better singers than we— though that, is yet to be known 
— but they could not have better reason. I can only explain 
this singular unanimity in a race which rarely acts together, 
but rather after their watchword, each for himself — by the fact 
that Robert Burns, the poet of the middle- class, represents in 
the mind of men to-day that great uprising of the middle-class 
against the armed and privileged minorities — that uprising 
which worked politically in the American and French Revolu- 
tions, and which, not in governments so much as in education 
and in social order, has changed the face of the world. In order 
for this destiny, his birth, breeding, and fortunes were low. His 
organic sentiment was absolute independence, and resting, as 
it should, on a life of labour. No man existed who could look 
down on him. They that looked into his eyes saw that they 
might look down the sky as easily. His muse and teaching was 
common sense, joyful, aggressive, irresistible. Not Latimer, not 
Luther, struck more telling blows against false Theology than 
did this brave singer. The 4 Confession of Augsburg,' the 
'Declaration of Independence,' the French 'Rights of Man,' 



BURNS'S FAME. 59 

and the ' Marseillaise,' are not more weighty documents in the 
history of freedom than the songs of Burns. His satire has lost 
none of its edge. His musical arrows yet sing through the air. 
He is so substantially a reformer, that I find his grand plain 
gense in close chain with the greatest masters — Eabelais, Shak- 
spere in comedy, Cervantes, Butler, and Burns. If I should 
add another name, I find it only in a living countryman ot 
Burns. He is an exceptional genius. The people who care 
nothing for literature and poetry care for Burns. It was indif- 
ferent — they thought that saw him — whether he wrote verses or 
not ; he could have done anything else as well. Yet how true 
a poet is he ! And the poet, too, of poor men, of gray hodden, 
and the guernsey coat, and the blouse. He has given voice to 
all the experiences of common life ; he has endeared the farm- 
house and cottage, patches and poverty, beans and barley ; ale, 
the poor man's wine ; hardship, the fear of debt, the dear society 
of weans and wife, of brothers and sisters, proud of each other, 
knowing so few, and finding amends for want and obscurity in 
books and thought. What a love of nature, and, shall I say it ? 
of middle-class nature. Not great, like Goethe, in the stars, or 
like Byron, on the ocean, or Moore in the luxurious East, but 
in the homely landscape which 'the poor see around them — bleak 
leagues of pasture and stubble, ice, and sleet, and rain, and 
snow - choked brooks ; birds, hares, field-mice, thistles, and 
heather, which he daily knew. How many 4 Bonnie Doons' and 
' John Anderson, my joes,' and l Auld Langsynes ' all around the 
earth have his verses been applied to ! And his love songs still 
woo and melt the youths and maids ; the farm-work, the coun- 
try holiday, the fishing coble, are still his debtors to-day. And 
as he was thus poet of poor, anxious, cheerful, working human- 
ity, so he had the language of low life. He grew up in a rural 
district, speaking a patois unintelligible to all but natives, and 
he has made that Lowland Scotch a Doric dialect of fame. It 
is the only example in history of a language made classic by the 
genius of a single man. But more than this, he had that secret 
of genius to draw from the bottom of society the strength of its 



GO BTJRXS'S FAME. 

speech, and astonish the ears of the polite -with those artless words, 
better than art, and filtered of all offence through his beauty. 
It seemed odious to Luther that the devil should have all the 
best tunes ; he would bring them into the churches ; and Burns 
knew how to take from fairs and gipsies, blacksmiths and drovers, 
the speech of the market and street, and clothe it with melody. 
But I am detaining you too long. The memory of Burns — I am 
afraid heaven and earth have taken too good care of it to leave 
us anything to say. The west winds are murmuring it. Open the 
windows behind you, and hearken for the incoming tide, what 
the waves say of it. The doves perching always on the eaves of 
the stone chapel opposite may know something about it. Every 
name in broad Scotland keeps his fame bright. The memory of 
Burns — every man's, and boy's, and girl's head carries snatches 
of his songs, and can say them by heart, and, what is strangest 
of all, never learned them from a book, but from mouth to 
mouth. The wind whispers them, the birds whistle them, the 
corn, barley, and bulrushes hoarsely rustle them; nay, the 
music-boxes of Geneva are framed and toothed to play them ; 
the hand- organs of the Savoyards in all cities repeat them, and 
the chimes of bells ring them in the spires. They are the pro- 
perty and the solace of mankind." 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



[Printed at Kilmarnock in July, 17S6, by John Wilson, and bearing on the title* 
page—" Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Diaeect, by Robert Burns," with the 
motto, 

" The simple Eard, unbroke by rules of art, 
He pours the wild effusions of the heart ; 
And if inspired, 'tis nature's powrs inspire— 
Hers all the melting thrill, and hers the kindling fire."] 



The following trifles are not the production of the Poet, who, 
with all the advantages of learned art, and perhaps amid the ele- 
gancies and idlenesses of upper life, looks down for a rural theme 
with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To the author of this, these 
and other celebrated names their countrymen, are, at least in 
their original language, a fountain shut up, and a book sealed. 
Unacquainted with the necessary requisites for commencing poet 
by rule, he sings the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in 
himself and his rustic compeers around him in his and their 
native language. Though a rhymer from his earliest years, at 
least from the earliest impulse of the softer passions, it was not 
till very lately that the applause, perhaps the partiality of 
friendship awakened his vanity so far as to make him think any- 
thing of his worth showing ; and none of the following works 
were composed with a view to the press. To amuse himself wdth 
the little creations of his own fancy, amid the toil and fatigue of 
a laborious life ; to transcribe the various feelings — the loves, 
the griefs, the hopes, the fears — in his own breast ; to find some 
kind of counterpoise to the struggles of a world, always an alien 
scene, a task uncouth to the poetical mind — these were his motives 
for courting the Muses, and in these he found poetry to be its 
own reward. 



62 THEFACE TO THE FIEST EDITION. 

Now that lie appears in the public character of an author, he 
does it with fear and trembling. So dear is fame to the rhym- 
ing tribe, that even he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrinks 
aghast at the thought of being branded as — an impertinent 
blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the world ; and, because 
he can make a shift to jingle a few doggerel Scotch rhymes 
together, looking upon himself as a poet of no small conse- 
quence, forsooth ! 

It is an observation of that celebrated poet, Shenstone, whose 
divine elegies do honour to our language, our nation, and our 
species, that "Humility has depressed many a genius to a 
hermit, but never raised one to fame !" If any critic catches at 
the word genius, the author tells him, once for all, that he 
certainly looks upon himself as possessed of some poetic abilities, 
otherwise his publishing in the manner he has done would be a 
manoeuvre below the worst character, which, he hopes, his worst 
enemy will ever give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or 
the glorious dawnings of the poor, unfortunate Ferguson, he, 
with equal unaffected sincerity, declares, that even in his highest 
pulse of vanity, he has not the most distant pretensions. These 
two justly-admired Scotch poets he has often had in his eye in 
the following pieces, but rather with a view to kindle at their 
flame than for servile imitation. 

To his Subscribers, the author returns his sincere thanks. 
Not the mercenary bow over a counter, but the heart-throb - 
bing gratitude of the Bard, conscious how much he owes to 
benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, if he deserves it ? 
in that dearest wish of every poetic bosom — to be distinguished. 
He begs his readers, particularly the learned and the polite, 
who may honour him with a perusal, that they will make every 
allowance for education and circumstances of life ; but if, after a 
fair, candid, and impartial criticism, he shall stand convicted of 
dullness and nonsense, let him be done by as he would in that 
case do by others— let him be condemned, without mercy, to 
contempt and oblivion. 



DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION. 



[Printed at Edinburgh, by Smellie, and having on the title-page—" Poems, chiefly 
in the Scottish Dialect, by Robert Bubxs. Pbikted for the Author, axd 
sold by William Creech, 1787."] 



NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 

OF 

THE CALEDONIAN HUNT, 

My Loeds and Gentlemen, 

A Scottish Bard, proud of the name, and whose highest 
ambition is to sing in his country's service, where shall he so 
properly look for patronage as to the illustrious names of his 
native land — those who bear the honours and inherit the virtues 
of their ancestors ? The poetic genius of my country found me, 
as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha — at the plough, and 
threw her inspiring mantle over me. She bade me sing the 
loves, the joys, the rural scenes and rural pleasures of my native 
soil, in my native tongue : I tuned my wild, artless notes as she 
inspired. She whispered me to come to this ancient metropolis 
of Caledonia, and lay my Songs under your honoured protec- 
tion : I now obey her dictates. 

Though much indebted to your goodness, I do not approach 
you, my Lords and Gentlemen, in the usual style of dedication, 
to thank you for past favours : that path is so hackneyed by 
prostituted learning, that honest rusticity is ashamed of it. Nor 



C4 DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION. 

do I present this address with the venal soul of a servile author, 
looking for a continuation of those favours : I was bred to the 
plough, and am independent. I come to claim the common 
Scottish name with you, my illustrious countrymen ; and to tell 
the world that I glory in the title. I come to congratulate my 
country that the blood of her ancient heroes still runs uncon- 
taminated, and that from your courage, knowledge, and public 
spirit, she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. In the 
last place, I come to proffer my warmest wishes to the great 
fountain of honour, the Monarch of the universe, for your wel- 
fare and happiness. 

When you go forth to waken the echoes, in the ancient and 
favourite amusement of your forefathers, may pleasure ever be 
of your party ; and may social joy await your return ! When 
harassed in courts or camps with the jostlings of bad men and 
bad measures, may the honest consciousness of injured worth 
attend your return to your native seats ; and may domestic 
happiness, with a smiling welcome, meet you at your gates ! 
May corruption shrink at your kindling indignant glance ; and 
may tyranny in the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, 
equally find you an inexorable foe ! 

I have the honour to be, 

With the sincerest gratitude and highest respect, 

My Lords and Gentlemen, 

Your most devoted humble servant, 

ROBERT BURNS. 

Edinburgh, April 4, 1787. 




"The cheerfu' supper done, \n y serious faee, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 

The sire turns o'er, with patriarchal grace, 
The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride." 

The Cottar's Saturday Night, p. 6& 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

KOBERT BURNS. 






THE COTTAR'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 

Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; * 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 

The short and simple annals of the poor.— Gray. 

[This beautiful dramatic picture of an interesting phase of Scottish peasant 
life, forms the best introduction to the genius and character of our great peasant 
poet. " The hint of the plan and title of the poem, were taken from Ferguson's 
Farmer's Ingles "The household of the virtuous William Burness, the father 
of the poet, was the scene of the poem, and William himself was the saint, and 
father, and husband, of this truly sacred drama,"] 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ.* 

My lov'd, my honoured, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays ; 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end : 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene ; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 1 

ween! 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh , whistling 

The short'ning winter day is near a close ; 

The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; crows 

The toil-worn cottar frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 

Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

* A legal practitioner in Ayr, of considerable oratorical talents, who was 
among the first to befriend the poet 

a 



66 



BTJRNS'S POEMS, 



Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 
Th' expectant wee things, toddlin', stacher thro' stagger 

To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee, fluttering 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, fire-place 

His clean hearth -stane, his thriftie wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 

Does a' his weary kiaugh an' care beguile, anxiety 

An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in, by and by 

At service out amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin heedful 

A cannie errand to a neibor town : careful 

Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw new gown, fine 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet, 

And each for other's welfare kindly spiers : asks 

The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet ; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears. news 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view : 
The mother wi' her needle an' her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weePs the new ; — "SoSa 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. almost 



Their master's and their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er tho' out o' sight to jauk or play : 
" An' oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in. vain that sougnt the Lord 
aright!" 



diligent 
trifle 



BUBKS's POEMS. 67 

But hark ! a rap conies gently to the door ; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neibor lad cam o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. horns 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cheek, 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, 

While Jenny haffl ins is afraid to speak ; almost half 

Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worth- 
less rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ; into the room 

A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's eye ; 
Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. cows 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate an' laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; fc £esUating 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae 
grave: 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like 

the lave. rest 

Oh happy love ! — where love like this is found ! 

Oh heart-felt raptures ! — -bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
" If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents theev'ning 
gale." 

Is there in human form, that bear3 a heart, 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth !— 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, — 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd ? w j 

Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child ? 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction 

wild? 



68 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford, 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cud : 
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuckfell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er with patriarchal grace, 

The big ha'-bible, ance his father's pride ; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin and bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
And, "Let us worship God," he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild-warbling measures rise, 

Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name, 
Or noble Elgin beets the heaven-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickTd ear no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison ha'e they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page — 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, an' wailin' cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme — 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 

How He, who bore in Heav'n the second name, 
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head ; 



porridge 
spoonful, 
cow 
porch 

well saved 
cheese spicy 



twelve 
month, 
in flower 



fire-place 

once 

gray cheeks 

selects 



adds fuel to 



BURNS'S POEMS. 69 

How His first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by 
Heav'n's command. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing,"* 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 

In such society, yet still more dear ; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide, 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The pow'r incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But, haply, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul; 
And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to heaven the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily ikir in flow'ry pride, 
Would in the way His wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 
springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

14 An honest man's the noblest work of God ;" 

* Pope's f Ftn&or Foruk 



70 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; 

What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 
And oh ! may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd through "Wallace's undaunted hi a: t, 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert : 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



TAM O' SHANTER. 

A TALE. 
" Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this bulie."— Gawis Docgixs. 

[Burns himself considered this his "standard performance in the poetrcal 
line," and this estimate most of his critics have subscribed. It was struck off at 
a heat in a mood of powerful poetic inspiration, while walking up and down his 
favourite walk by the banks of the Nith. " Having committed his verses to 
writing on the top of his sod-dyke over the water, he came into the house and 
read them immediately in high triumph at the fireside." As in all Burns's com- 
positions of a similar kind, the characters were drawn from known originals and 
the incidents more or less founded in fact, Tarn o' Shanter was a certain Dou- 
glas Grahame, who possessed the farm of Shanter on the Carrick shore; Souter 
Johnny is understood to have been one John Davidson, a dealer in leather. The 
poem was written for, and first appeared in, Grose's Antiquities of Scotland,] 

When chapman billies leave the street, fellows 

And drouthy neibors, neibors meet, 

As market days are wearing late, 

And folk begin to tak the gate ; road 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



71 



While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
And gettin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tarn o* Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter — 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonnie lasses.) 

Oh Tarn ! had'st thou but been sae wise 

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 

She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, 

A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 

That frae November till October, 

Ae market day thou was na sober; 

That ilka m elder* wi' the miller, 

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 

That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 

That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 

Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. t 

She prophesied, that, late or soon, 

Tbou would be found deep drown' d in Doon ; 

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 

To think how mony counsels sweet, 

How mony lengthened sage advices, 

The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : — Ae market night, 
Tarn had got planted unco right, 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely ; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony ; 



drunk, 
very 

gaps 



found 
from, one 
whom 

so 

own 

worthless 
fellow 
idle talker 



every 
long 

nag, nailed 
got drunk 



dark 

makes me 
cry 

from 

one 
very 

fire-place 
frothing ale 



• Corn or other grain sent to the mill to be ground. 

t A certain Jean Kennedy, who kept a tavern in Kirkoswald* In Scotland, 
the village in which the parish church stands is called the Kirkton. 



72 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Tarn lo'ed him like a vera brither— vei 7 brother 

They had been fou' for weeks thegither ! 

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, drove, songs 

And aye the ale was growing better : still 

The landlady and Tarn grew gracious, 

Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious, 

The souter tauld his queerest stories, shoemaker 

The landlord's laugh was ready chorus ; 

The storm without might rair and rustle — roar 

Tarn didna mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 

E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy ! ale 

As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, home 

The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure : 

Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, 

O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 

Ycfci seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; 

Or like the snowfall in the river, 

A moment white— then melts for ever; 

Or like the borealis race, 

That flit e'er you can point their place ; 

Or like the rainbow's lovely form 

Evanishing amid the storm. 

Nae man can tether time nor tide, 

The hour approaches Tarn maun ride ; must 

That hour o' night's black arch the key-stane, &>m 

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 

And sic a night he tak's the road in such 

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last ; 

The rattling show'rs rose on the blast ; 

The speedy gleams the darkness swallowM, 

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd : i ng 

That night a child might understand, 

The deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, well 
A better never lifted leg, 

Tarn skelpit on through dub and mire, dashed, 

Despising wind, and rain, and fire ; puddle 



BDRNS'S POEMS. 



73 



Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, 
Whiles crooning o'er some old Scots sonnet ; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares. 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,* 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. 
By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drucken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'. 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods ; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole, 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro* the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze ; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil ; 
Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream d in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na de'ils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels : 
A winnock bunker in the east, 
There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast ; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gi'e them music was his charge ; 



humming 

staring 

spirits 

owls 

was smoth- 
ered 

birches, 
large 

broke his 

gorse 

child 



every hole 



twopenny ale 
whisky . 
ale, frothed 



awful 

bran-new 

window-seat 
shaggy dog 



* Alloway Kirk, with its little enclosed burial ground, stands beside the road 
from Ayr to Maybole, about two miles from the former town. 



74 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. 
Coffins stood round like open presses, 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses ; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light- 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns ; 
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape ; 
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted, 
A garter, which a babe had strangled, 
A knife, a father's throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft, 
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glower'd, amaz'd and curious, 

The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 

The piper loud and louder blew ; 

The dancers quick and quicker flew ; 

They reel'd, they set, they cross' d, they cleekit, 

Till ilka carline swat and reekit, 

And coost her duddies to the wark, 

And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tarn, oh Tarn ! had thae been queans 
A' plump and strapping, in their teens ; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen ! * 
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, 
I wad ha'e gi'en them aflf my hurdies, 
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Bigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, 
Louping and flinging on a cummock, 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 



niaae 
scream 
shake 



trick 



irons 
little 



mouth 



stared 



linked 
each, smoked 

cast, clothing 
tripped, 
shift 

these 



greasy flan- 
nel 

these 
breeches 



posteriors 



withered, 

wean 

jumping, 

staff 



* "The manufacturer's term for a fine linen, woven in a reed of 1,700 diyi- 
•ions," 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



75 



But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie ; 

There was ae winsome wench and walie, 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore : 

For mony a beast to dead she shot, 

And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 

And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 

And kept the country-side in fear.) 

Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, 

That while a lassie she had worn, 

In longitude, tho' sorely scanty, 

It was her best, and she was vauntie. 

Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie, 

That sark she coft for her wee Js annie, 

Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 

Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cow'r, 

Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r ; 

To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 

(A souple jad she was and Strang,) 

And how Tarn stood like ane bewitch'd, 

And thought his very een enrich'd ; 

Even Satan glower'd and fidg'd fu' fain, 

And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 

Till first ae caper, syne anither, 

Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, 

And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark !" 

And in an instant all was dark : 

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 

When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 

When plundering herds assail their byke ; 

As open pussie's mortal foes, 

When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 

As eager runs the market-crowd, 

When " Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; 

So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tarn ! ah, Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin' ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin' ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 



well 

one goodly 



much, barley 
short shift 



proud 
bought 



must 
such 
lept 
supple 



stared 
moved 
then 
lost 



fret 
nest 
the hare's 



ghastly 
scream 

payment 



76 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 

And win the key-stane* o' the brig 5 

There at them thou thy tail may toss, 

A running stream they darena cross ! 

But ere the key-stane she could make, 

The fient a tail she had to shake ! devil a tail 

For Nannie, far before the rest, 

Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 

And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle, endeavour 

But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 

Ae spring brought off her master hale, 

But left behind her ain gray tail : 

The carline claught her by the rump, caught 

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 

Ilk man and mother's son take heed : each 

Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 

Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 

Think ! ye may buy the joys owre dear — too 

Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. 



THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

[Composed in February, 1786, just as the first or Kilmarnock edition of the 
Poems was going to the press, and placed, at the suggestion of John Wilson, 
the printer of it, at the beginning of the work. Luath was the poet's own 
dog—" a ploughman's collie." Caesar was a creature of the poet's imagination, 
and, as his brother Gilbert says, ** created for the purpose of holding chat with 
his favourite Luath." ] 

'Twas in that place 0' Scotland's isle 

That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,f 

Upon a bonnie day in June, 

When wearing through the afternoon, 

Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame, busy 

Forgather'd ance upon a time. met 

* It is a well known fact that witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to 
follow a poor wight any farther than the middle of the next running stream. 
It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he 
falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much 
more hazard in turning back.— B. 

t Kyle, the middle district of Ayrshire—the native province of Burns. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



77 



The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, letter'd, braw brass collar 

Show'd him the gentleman and scholar ; 

But though he was o' high degree, 

The fient * a pride — nae pride had he ; 

But wad hae spent an hour caressin', 

E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin'. 

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 

Nae tawted tyke, though ere sae duddie, 

But he wad stan't, as glad to see him, 

And stroan't on stanes or hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 

A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 

Wha for his friend and comrade had him, 

And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 

After some dog in Highland sang, f 

Was made lang syne — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash and faithful tyke, 

As ever lap a sheugh or dyke. 

His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face, 

Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 

His breast was white, his towzie back 

Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 

His gaucy tail, wi' upward curl, 

Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither, 
And unco pack and thick thegither : 
Wi' social nose whiles snuff'd and snowkit, 
Whiles mice and moudieworts they howkit ; 
Whiles scour'd awa' in lang excursion, 
And worried ither in diversion ; 
Until wi' daffin' weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 

* Same as fiend— equivalent to "The devil a pride." 
t Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fingal. 



go 



CUT 

smithy 
shaggy dog, 
ragged 
stood 

urined 

other 

fellow 



ago 

shrewd, dog 
leaped, ditch 
brindled 
every 
shaggy 

jolly 
hips 

fond 

intimate 
smelled, 
about 
moles, dug 



sporting 
hillock 



78 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



(LESAR. 



IVe aften wondered, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ; 
And when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our laird gets in his racked rents, 

His coals, his kain,* and a' his stents ; 

He rises when he likes himsel' ; 

His flunkies answer at the bell ; 

He ca's his coach, he ca's his horse ; 

He draws a bonnie silken purse 

As lang's my tail, whare, through the steeks, 

The yellow-lettered Geordie keeks. 



assessments 



stitches 
peeps 



Frae morn to e'en it's nought but toiling, 

At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ; 

And though the gentry first are stechin, stuffing 

Yet e'en the ha' folk fill their pechan stomach 

Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like trashtrie, 

That's little short o' downright wastrie. 

Our whipper-in,t wee blastit wonner, 

Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner, 

Better than ony tenant man 

His honour has in a' the Ian' ; 

And what poor cot-folk pit their painch in, paunch 

I own it's past my comprehension. 



LUATH. 

Trowth, Csesar, whiles they're fash't enough ; 

A cottar howkin' in a sheugh, 

Wi' dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, 

Barring a quarry, and sic like ; 

Himself, a wife, he thus sustains, 

A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 

And nought but his han' darg, to keep 

Them right and tight in thack and rape.J 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o' health or want o' masters, 



troubled 

digging, 

ditch 

building 

fencing 



number, 
ragged 
children 

day's work 



* Rent paid in farm produce. 

t Hugh Andrew, whipper-in to Colonel Montgomery. 

j Thatch and rope— a phrase for the necessaries of life. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



79 



Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer, 
And they maun starve o' cauld and hunger 5 
But how it comes, I never kenn'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented : 
And buirdly chiels, and clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



almost 



stately lads, 
girls 



CAESAR. 

But then to see how you're negleckit, 
How huff'd, and cuff'd, and disrespeckit ! 
L — d, man, our gentry care as little 
For delvers, ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinkin' brock. 
I've notic'd, on our Laird's court- day, 
And mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash, 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp and threaten, curse and swear, 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ; 
While they maun stan' wi' aspect humble, 
And hear it a', and fear and tremble ! 
I see how folk live that ha'e riches ; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches ! 



badger 
grieved 
endure 
goods 



LUATH. 

They're no sae wretched's ane wad think ; 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 
Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided ; 
And tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their grushie weans and faithfu' wives ; 
The prattling things are just their pride, 
That sweetens a' their fireside ; 
And whiles twalpennie* worth o' nappy 
Can mak' the bodies unco happy ; 



poverty's 



thriving 
children 



ale 



* A pennyworth— twelve pence of Scotch money .being equal to one penny 
sterling. 



80 BURNS'S POEMS. 

They lay aside their private cares, 

To mind the Kirk and State affairs ■ 

They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 

Wi' kindling fury in their breasts, 

Or tell what new taxation's comm\ 

And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. wonder 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 

They get the jovial, ranting kirns, Harvest- 

When rural life, o' ev'ry station, homes 

Unite in common recreation ; 

Love blinks, Wit slaps, and social Mirth 

Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins, 

They bar the door on frosty win's ; 

The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, froth 

And sheds a heart-inspiring steam ; 

The luntin' pipe, and sneeshin' mill, S Xff-i?ox 

Are handed round wi' right guid will ; . rf . . 

The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, talking 

The young anes rantin' thro' the house — briskly 

My heart has been sae fain to see them, 

That I for joy ha'e barkit wi' them. 

Still it's owre true that ye ha'e said, too 

Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 

There's mony a creditable stock 

O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 6eemiy 

Are riven out baith root and branch, 

Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 

Wha thinks to knit himsel' the faster 

In favour wi' some gentle master, 

Wha aiblins thrang a parliamentin', perchance, 

For Britain's guid his saul indentin' — 

CJESAR. 

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid ! guid faith, I doubt it. 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, going 

And saying ay or no's they bid him : 

At operas and plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading ; 




" Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail: 
The carline claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump." 

Tam o' Shantek, p. 76. 



BURNS'S lOEMS. 



81 



Or may be, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais tak's a waft, 

To mak' a tour and tak' a whirl, 

To learn bon ton, and see the wOrl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 

He rives his father's auld entails ; 

Or by Madrid he takes the route, 

To thrum guitars, and fecht wi' nowte ; 

Or down Italian Vista startles, 

W — re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles ; 

Then bouses drumly German water, 

To mak' himsel' look fair and fatter, 

And clear the consequential sorrows, 

Love-gifts of Carnival signoras. 

For Britain's guid ! — for her destruction ! 

Wi' dissipation, feud, and faction. 



fight, 
bullocks 



muddy 



LUATH. 

Hech man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate ? 
Are we sae foughten and harassed 
For gear to gang that gate at last ? 

Oh would they stay aback frae courts, 
And please themsel's wi' country sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ane be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, and the Cottar ! 
For thae frank, rantin', ramblin' billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows ; 
Except for breakin' o' their timmer, 
Or speakin' lightly o' their limmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock, 
The ne'er a bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ? 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



exhausted 
money 



fellows 
the devil a 
whit 
timber 



stir 



C^SAR. 



L — d, man, were ye but whiles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 



sometimes 



82 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or summer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi' grips and granes j 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools, 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They mak' enow themsel's to vex them ; 
And aye the less they ha'e to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them. 

A country fellow at the pleugh, 
Ris acre's till'd, he's right eneugh ; 
A country girl at her wheel, 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel ; 
But Gentlemen, and Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, and lazy ; 
Tho' de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull, and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, and restless ; 
And e'en their sports, their balls and races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, and art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches ; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run* de'ils and j ads thegither. 
Yvliiles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty ; 
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
And cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 
There's some exception, man and woman ; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight, 

• "Run" has the force of " thorough" here. 



groans 

trouble 

plough 

dozen 

worst 

nothing 



solder 
next 

together 



live-long, 
looks 
cards 



any 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



83 



And darker gloaming brought the night : 
The bum- clock hunim'd wi' lazy drone ; 
The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat, and shook their lugs, 
Bejoic'd they were na men, but dogs 5 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



beetle 

lowing, lane 
ears 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. . 

[This poem, written in 1785, was not published by the author. It seems to 
have been printed for the first time in 1801 by Messrs. Brash and Reid of Glas- 
gow, under the title of Poems Ascribed to Robert Burns, the Ayrshire Bard. Its 
dramatic construction is thorough. Every beggar has distinctive character, 
and sustains it. The humour, from the nature of the subject, is of course 
"broad;" but though sometimes "low," never obscene. Indeed, all things 
rightly considered, the purity of treatment is astonishing. He who cannot find 
out "the good of it," had better not read Burns at all.] 



RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrew the yird, 
Or wavering like the bauckie-bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast ; 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skite 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies, 
In Poosie Nancy's* held the splore, 
. To drink their orra duddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing, 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdlef rang. 

First, neist the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags, 

An' knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 



gray, earth 
bat 

stroke 

hoar-frost 

scolding 
vagrant 

merry- 
meeting 

odd rags 



next 






* Poosie Nancy was a Mrs. Gibson, who kept a very humble hostelry in 
Mauchline. 
f An iron plate for baking oaten cakes over the fire. 



84 bursts's POEMS. 

Wi' usquebae and blankets warm — 

She blinkit on her sodger : 
And aye he gi'es the tozie drab tipsy 

The tither skelpnV kiss, other 

While she held up her greedy gab 

Just like an aumos* dish alms 

Ilk smack still, did crack still, each 

Just like a cadger's whip, carrier 

Then staggering and swaggering 
He roared this ditty up. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldiers 1 joy. 
I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the 
drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd 

his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram :f 
I served out my trade when the gallant game was 

played, 
And the Morrof low was laid at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai de daudle &c, 

1 lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,§ 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot|| to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 



* A large wooden dish for the reception of any alms which took the shape of 
food. 

t " In front of Qnebec, where Wolfe fell victorious, September 1759." 

% "The castle at the entrance to the harbour of Havannah, in Cuba— stormed 
and taken by the British in 1762, after which the Havannah was surrendered." 

§ M The destruction of the Spanish floating batteries during the famous siege 
of Gibraltar in 1762, when the gallant Captain Curtis rendered the most signal 
service. " 

I M George Augustus Elliot, created Lord Heathfield for his admirable defence 
of Gibraltar during a siege of three years." 



BURNS'S POEMS- 85 

And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm and leg, 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, posteriors 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my callet, C s t ™£ m p Cfc 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

What tho' with hoary locks I must stand the winter 

shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks oftentimes for a home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle 

tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of a drum. 
Lai de daudle, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended; and the kebars sheuk, rafters 

Aboon the chorus roar ; 
While frighted rattens backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; inmost 

A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 

He skirl'd out " Encore ! " screamed 

But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune — Soldier Laddie. 
I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, father 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade ; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de laf, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church ; 
He ventur'dthe soul, and I risk'd the body — 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 



86 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot, 
The regiment at large for a husband I got ; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair ; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoic'd at a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have liv'd — I know not how long, 
And still I can join in a cup and a song ; 
But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

RECITATIYO. 

Poor Merry Andrew m the neuk, nook 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; kussy 

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, took 

Between themselves they were sae busy : 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; staggered 

Then turn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzle, 

Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace. then 

AIR. 

Tune — Auld Sir Symon. 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, ^» \ & » 

. ■■ (* i . . drunk 

Sir knave is a tool in a session ; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 

And I held awa' to the school ; 
I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye ha'e of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 

A hizzie' s the half o' my craft, 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft ? mad 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



87 



I ance was tied up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffin' ; 

I ance was abus'd in the kirk, 
For touzling a lass i' my daffin'. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer : 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 

Observed ye, yon reverend lad 
Mak's faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion I'll tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude L — d ! he's far dafter than I. 



bullock 



rumpling, 
merriment 



fellow 



RECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak' a raucle carlin', 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For mony a pursie she had hooked, 
And had in mony a well been ducked : 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 



stout old 
beldam 
snatch 



halter 



AIR. 

Tune — art ye were dead, guidman. 
A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawland laws he held in scorn, 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 



handsome 



CHORUS. 



Sing hey, my braw John Highlandman 
Sing ho, my braw John Highlandman ! 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian* 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 



88 



BURNS's POEMS. 



Wi' his philabeg and tartan plaid, 
And guid claymore down by his side, 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay ; 
For a Lawland face he feared none, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman, 
Sing hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast ; 
My curse upon them every one, 
They've hang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return ; 
No comfort but a hearty can, 
When I think on John Highlandman, 
Sing hey, &c. 



broadsword 




RECITATTVO, 

A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle, 

Her strappin' limb and gaucy middle 

(He reach'd na higher) 
Had hol'd his heartie like a riddle, 

And blawn't on fire. 



cattle- 
markets, 
play 



Wi' hand on haunch, and upward e'e, 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set afF wi' alegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



hummed 



BURNS'S POEMS 89 



AIR. 

Tune — Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

Let me ryke up to dight that tear, reach, wipe 

And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 

May whistle owre the lave o't. over the rest 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid 
Wa3 whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pike, P ick 

And sun oursel's about the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when ye like, 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, Catgut 

Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms, 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, gipsj 

As weel as poor gut-scraper ; 
He tak's the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a roosty rapier — 

He swore by a' was swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver, plover 

Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 



90 BURNS 'S POEMS. 

WP ghastly e'e, poor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, hams 

And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 

But tho' his little heart did grieve 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feign'd to snirtle in his sleeve, deride 

When thus the caird address' d her : 

AIR. 

Tune — Clout the caudron. 
My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travelTd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation : 

I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroll'd 

In many a noble squadron : 
But vain they search'd, when off I march'd 

To go and clout the caudron. P cauidron 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin', 
And tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron. 
And by that stoup,* my faith and houp, 

And by that dear kilbagie,f 
If e'er ye want or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. throat 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violmo, with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wished unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 
• A wooden drinking cup. t A sort of whisky in high repute* 



91 



But urchin Cupid shot a shaft, 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler raked her fore and aft, 

Ahint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Tho' limping wi' the spavie'. 
He hirpl'd up and lap like daft, 

And shor'd them Daintie Davie 
To boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid, 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had nae wish but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted ; 
He hated nought but— to be sad, 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



trick 
hen-coop 



hobbled, 
lept, mad 
threatened 



Tune- 



air. 
-For cC that and a' that. 



I am a bard of no regard, 
Wi 1 gentle folks and a' that : 

But Homer-like, the glowrin' byke, 
Frae town to town I draw that. 



staring 
crowd 



CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a' that, 

And twice as muckle's a 9 that ; 
I've lost but ane, I've twa benin', 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muses' stank, P° oi 

Cast alia 's burn and a' that ; 
But there it streams, and richly reams, foams 

My Helicon I ca' that. 

For a' that, &e» 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 

Their humble slave, and a' that \ 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. contradict 

For a' that, &c. 



92 BURNS's POEMS. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that : 

But for how lang the flee may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft, 
They've ta'en me in, and a' that ; 

But clear your decks, and here's the sex, 
I like the jads for a' that. 

CHORUS. 

For a' that, and a 1 that, 

And twice as muckle's a' that ; 

My dearest bluid, to do them guid, 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 



to it 



RECITATIVO. 

So sang the bard — and Nancy's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth : 
They toom'd their pocks, and pawn'd their duds, emptied 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, posteriors 

To quench their lowin' drouth. burning 

Then owre again the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, choose 

A ballad o' the best ; 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, and found them 
Impatient for the chorus. 



Tune — Jolly mortals, Jill your glasses. 
See ! the smoking bowl before us, 

Mark our jovial ragged ring! 
Round and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 

CHORUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 93 

Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the pr .at. 

What is title ? what is treasure ? 

What is reputation's care ? 
If we lead a life of pleasure , 

'Tis no matter how or ,/here ! 
A f A &c. 

With the ready trick and fable, 

Round we wander all the day ; 
And at night, in barn or stable, 

Hug our doxies on the hay. 
A fig, &c. 

Does the train-attended carriage 

Through the country lighter rove ? 
Does the sober bed of marriage 

Witness brighter scenes of love? 
A fig, &c. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 
Here's our ragged brats and callets ! strumpets 

One and all cry out — Amen ! 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast ! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 






94 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE VISION. 

[In this poem, the poet exhibits a very just estimate of his o-vrn merits and 
demerits as a poet and as a man. Posterity has, however, assigned him a much 
higher position in point of genius, though it has not been so generous to him 



otherwise.] 



DUAN FIRST * 



The sun had clos'd the winter day, 
The curlers quat their roaring play,| 
And hunger' d maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green, 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 



quitted 

hare 

Kitchen gar- 
dens 
each 



The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me ; 
And when the day had clos'd his e'e, 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek, 
That fill'd wi' hoast-provoking smeek 

The auld clay biggin' ; 
And heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin'. 

All in this moty, misty clime, 

I backward mus'd on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

And done nae thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 



flail 
live-long 



the parlour 
went 

fireside 

cough, 
smoke 
building 
rats 
rafters 

fullofmoteB 



Had I to guid advice but harkit, hearkened 

I might, by this, ha'e led a market, ere 

Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit clerked 

My cash account : 

While here, half-mad, half-fed, half-sarkit, 6hir t ed 

Is a' th' amount. 

* A term of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digressive poem, 
t A Scottish national game played on strong ice, by hurling large round 
stones with aim of being nearest to "a nsed marii, 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



95 



I started, mutt'ring, Blockhead ! ooof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 

Or some rash aith, 
That I henceforth would be rhyme -proof 

Till my last breath — 

When -click ! the string the sneck did draw: 
And, jee ! the door gaed tae the wa'. 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw, 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye needna doubt, I held my whisht ; 
The infant aith, half-form'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht* 

In some wild glen ; 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And stepped ben. 

Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted gracefu' round her brows ; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token, 
And come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 

A " hair-brain' d sentimental trace "f 
Was strongly marked in her face ; 
A wildly- witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her ; 
Her eye ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonnie Jean J 

Could only peer it ; 
Sae straught, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

ISTane else cam' near it. 



simpleton 
hardened 
palm 

oath 



latch 
went 
fire-light 
blazing 
woman 
handsome 



silence 

stared, 
frightened 



into the room 



scarcely 



i.e., well 
turned 



* Butted hy a ram. t See the author's Epistle to James Smith. 

J In the first edition, this line stood thus— 

11 And such a leg, my Bess, I ween." 
Bess was a servant at Mossgiel, and the mother of his illegitimate shild. 



96 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 

My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 

Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, threw 

A lustre grand: 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view, 

A well known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost ; 
There, mountains to the skies were tost : 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd' the coast 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch' d floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds : sounds 

Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, stole 

On to the shore, 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient borough rear'd her head ;* 

Still, as in Scottish story read, 

She boasts a race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair,t 

Or ruins pendent in the air, 

Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern ; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a racej heroic wheel, 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows ; 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 

• Ayr, whose charter was granted in the beginning of the 13th century, 
t This and the six stanzas following, were added in the second edition. 
t The Wallaces.-^. 







"My heart did glowing transport feel, 
To see a race heroic wheel, 
And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows; 
While back recoiling seem'd to reel 
Their southron foes." 

The Vision, p. 96. 



BURNS T S POEMS. 97 

His Country's Saviour * mark him well 1 
Bold Richardton'sf heroic swell ; 
The chief on SarkJ who glorious fell 

In high command ; 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade § 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial race portray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro 7 many a wild romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancied cove 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love), 

In musing mood, 
An aged judge, I saw him rove,|J 

Dispensing good. 

With deep -struck reverential awe, 
The learned sire and son I saw,T 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore, 
This, all its source and end to draw ; 

That, to adore, 

Brydone's brave ward ** I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye ; 

« Sir William Wallace.— B. 

f Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to the immortal preserver of Scottish 
independence.— 2?. 

J Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second in command, under Douglas, 
Earl of Ormond, at the famous hattle on the banks of Sark, fought in 1448. The 
glorious victory was principally owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid 
valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds after the 
action.— B. 

§ Coilus, king of the Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to take its 
Dame, lies buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of the Mont^omeries of 
Coilsfield, where his burial-place is still shown. — B. "A small mount marked 
by a few trees, pointed out by tradition as the burial-place of Coilus, was 
opened, May 29, 1837, when two sepulchral urns were found." — Ch. 

|| Barskimming, the seat of the Lord Justice-Clerk.— B. " Sir Thomas Miller 
of Glenlee, afterwards President of the Court of Session."— Ch. 

1[ "The Rev. Dr. Matthew Stewart, the celebrated mathematician, and his 
son, Mr. Dugald Stewart, the elegant expositor of the Scotch school of meta- 
physics — their small villa of Catrine was situated on the Ayr." — Ch. 

** Colonel Fullarton — B. Patrick Brydone, author of a Tour in Sicily and 
Malta, with whom, as tutor, CoL F. had travelled. 

D 






98 BTJRNS'S POEM 3. 

Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 
To hand him on, 

Where many a patriot-name on high, 
And hero shone. 



DUAN SECOND. 

With musing deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly-seeming fair ; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

" All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard ! 
!Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 

44 Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

"They Scotia's race among them shares 
Some fire the soldier on to dare ; 
Some rouse the patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

44 'Mong swelling floods of reeking goreg 
They ardent, kindling spirits pour ; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot lore, 

And grace the hand. 

44 And when the bard, or hoary sage. 
Charm or instruct the future age, 



BURNS'S POEMS. 39 

They bind the wild, poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

11 Hence Fullarton, the brave and young ; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue.* 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His c Minstrel lays :' 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

u To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artizan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclined, 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some, strongly, rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the shepherd train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

44 Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile ; 
Some smooth the lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

u Some bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 

11 Of these am I — Coila my name ;f 
And this district as mine I claim, 
* In the first edition, this line stood thus— 

" Hence Dempster's truth-prevailing tongue.* 
t The idea of this visionary heing is taken from the Scoia of Alexander Ross, 
U Mearns poet, author of The Fortunate Shepherdess, 






100 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Where once the Campbells,* chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful name^ 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Fond, on thy little early ways, 
Thy rudely car oil' d chiming phrase, 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays, 

Of other times. 

"I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar ; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove through the sky, 
I saw grim nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joysj 
« And lonely stalk, 

To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 
In pensive walk. 

" When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong. 
Keen- shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Those accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song 

To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 

* The Loudon branch of the Campbells. Mossgiel and neighbourhood wns 
formerly the property of the Earl of Loudon ; but now belongs to Mr. Alexander 
of Ballochmyle, 



EtJRNS's £<jI:ms. 101 



Misled by Fancy's meteor-ray, 

By passion driven ; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from hoaven. 

"I taught thy manners-painfing strains, 
The loves, the ways of simpl 3 swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extenc Is ; 
And some, the pride of Coil a's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

u Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's la ndscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom -melting throe, 

With Shenston< 3's art ; 
Or pour with Gray, the mc ving flow 

Warm on the h eart. 

" Yet, all beneath the unrr rall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly bio ws ; 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade , 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glad e. 

" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shin .e ; 
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine, 

Nor king's regard, 
Can give a bliss o'ermatchinc; thin< 5, 

A rustic bard. 

" To give my counsels all in one — | 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan : ; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 

With soul erect ; 
And trust, the universal plan 

Will all protect. 

14 And wear thou this " — she sol en in said t 
And bound the holly round my h( jad : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries re >d, 

Did rustling play ; 
And like a passing thought, she. fl ,ed 

In light away. 



Straus's poems. 



THE HOLY FAIR, 



J' A robe of seeming truth and trust 

•' Hid crafts observation ; 

And secret Wing, with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask thnt ii ke the gorget show'd, 

Dye-varviw on the pigeon ; 
And for a mar. tie large and broad, 
He wrapt tail a in Keligion.— Hvpocris* A-LA-MOSff. 

{Gilbert Burns fays the title and pi an of this poem were suggested by Fergu- 
son's " Hallow Fair of Edinburgh."' It bears a, closer resemblance, however, to 
his " Leith Races." " Holy Fair" wi is a common name for tlie ritual of the 
Sacrament, and seems to have been vt ny appropriate.] 

Upon a simmer Sundaj morn, 

When Nature's face i v&s fair, 
I walked forth to view fci'ae corn, 

And snuff the caller ai r. 
The rising sun owre Graiirton* muirs 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' ; 
The hares were hiiplin' c lown the fars t 

The laverocks they wei e chantin' 
Fu y gweefc iohat day. 

As lightsomely I glowered abroad, 

To see a scene sae gay , 
Three hizzies, ea rly at the road, 

Cam' skelpin' up the way; 
Twa had mantee les o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' ly art limo. 1 ; 
The third, that | *aed a-wee a-back, 

Was in the fa: shion shinin', 

Fi i' gay that day. 

The twa appear' d like sister's twin, 

In feature, for m, an' claes ; 
Their visage wit! ler'd, lang, and thin § 

And sour as o ay sla<3s : 
The third cam' u p, hap-step-an'-lowp T 

As light as on; f lam bie, 
An' wi' a curchie i low did stoop, 

As soon as e'ei : she saw me, 

Fu ' kifl d that day. 

Wi' bonnet aff, q uotb I, " Sweet lass, 
I think ye seen i to ken me ; 

* The adjoiai) ig p& lish to Manchlin©. 



fresh 
moors 
peeping 
limping, 
farrows 
larks 



stared 

wenches 

tripping 

mantles 

gray 

went 



clothes 

sloes 
hop, leap 

courtesy 






BTTRNS 7 S POEMS. 

I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak', 

And tak's me by the hands, 
14 Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

44 My name is Fun — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye ha'e ; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchline holy fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin' : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin' 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't ; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
An' meet you on the holy spot — 

Faith, we'se ha'e fine rem ar kin' !" 
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time, 

An' soon I made me ready ; 
For roads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' mony a wearie body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in ridin' graith' 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin' owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks and scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in mony a whang, 

An' farls bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glow'r black bonnet * throws, 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 



103 



tear 



going 
sporting 
i^ wrinkled 



shirt 



went, 
breakfast 



sensible, 

attire 
jogging 
striplings, 

broad cloth 

barefoot 



slice 

oaten cakes 
crisp 



stare 
twopence 



* A familiar name for the elder stationed beside the collection-plate at the 
church door, because on such an occasion, he generally wore a black bonnet 



104 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Then in we go to see the show ; 

On ev'ry side they're gathering 
Some carrying dails, some chairs, an' stools, 

And some are busy bletherin' 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs 

An' screen our country gentry, 
There, racer Jess,* an' twa-three wh-res, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jauds, 

Wi' heaving breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 
For fun this day. 

Here some are thinkin' on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes ; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs and prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi 1 screw'd-up grace-proud faces ; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 

Oh happy is that man and blest ! 

(Nae wonder that it pride him ! ) 
Wha's ain dear lass that he likes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him ! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair back, 

He sweetly does compose him ; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation : 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' d-mn-tion.f 



deals 
chatting 



whispering 



clothes 
soiled 



sample 
lads 






hand 



climbs 



* The half-witted daughter of Poosie Nancy (the hostess of the Jolly Beggars), 
who ran upon chance errands. 

t " Salvation" in the Kilmarnock edition, but changed at the suggestion of 
Dr. Blair of Edinburgh, to malce it more piquant Moodie was the minister of 
Riccarton. 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 105 

Should Hornie, as in ancient days, Satan 

'Mang sons o' God present him, 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him hot home 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin' an' wi' thumpin' ! 
ISTow meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin' ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout, 

His eldritch squeal and gestures, unearthly 

Oh, how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day ! 

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ; 

There's peace and rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. cannot 

Smith* opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice an' on morals ; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gi'e the jars an' barrels 
A lift that day. 

What signifies his barren shine, 

Of moral pow'rs and reason ? 
His English style an' gesture fine 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's richt that day. right 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles,f frae the water-fit, foot 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 

* Mr. (afterwards Dr.) George Smith, minister of Galston. Burns meant to 
compliment him. His friends, however, thought the compliment calculated to 
injure his popularity as a preacher. 

t Mr. (afterwards Dr.) William Peebles, minister of Newton-upon-Ayr, and a 
popular orthodox preacher. 



106 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, prim 

While Common Sense* has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate, f 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller J neist the guard relieves, 

And orthodoxy raibles, rattles 

Tho' in his heart he weel believes, 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith ! the birkie wants a manse, smart fellow 

So, cannily he hums them ; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 

Like hafflins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now but and ben the change-house fills, in both rooms 

AVi' yill-caup commentators ; ale-cup 

Here's crying out for bakes and gills, biscuits 

And there the pint-stoup clatters ; pint-jug 

W T hile thick and thrang, and loud and lang, 

Wi' logic and wi' scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on drink, § it gi'es us mair more 

Than either school or college : 
It kindles wit, it waukens lair, learning 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. * stuffs, full 

Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, small-beer 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinkin' deep, 

To kittle up our notion tickle 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and body, both 

Sifc round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy. 

•A personified abstraction, or more likely, a Dr. Mackenzie, then of ManeMne, 
afterwards of Irvine, who had conducted a petty village controversy under this 
signature. 

t A street inMauchline facing the entrance to the churchyard. 

j Mr. Miller, afterwards minister of Kilmaurs. This is asserted to have re- 
tarded his advancement in the church. 

§ "Leeze me," a term of endearment, equivalent to, '"ahl thou dear drink !" 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

On this ane's and on tb .at ane's look, 
They're makin' obse rvatioafi ; 

While some are cozie i' the neuk, 
And formin' assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the L — d's, ain trura pet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin',, 
An' echoes back return the s houts — 

Black Russell * is na spari n'. 
His piercing words, like Hig 1 alan' swords, 

Divide the joints an' marir ow ; 
His talk o' hell, whare devils i dwell, 

Our vera sauls does harra w, 

Wi' fright tha 1 1 day. 



107 



roaring 



A vast, unbottom'd, boundl ess pit, 

FiU'd fou o' lowin' brunst ane, flaming 

Wha's ragin' flame, an' scoi •chin' heat, 

Wad melt the hardest wto un-stane ! -whin-stone 

The half asleep start up wi* fear, 

An' think they hear it roi arin', 
When presently it does apr >ear 

'Twas but some neebor s norin', neighbour 

Asleep that day. 



"Twad be owre lang a tale., to tell 

How mony stories past,, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' disjo list : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs and caups, 

Amang the furms an' h enches : 
An' cheese and bread, fra ,e women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches, 

An' dauds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwife, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer. 



ale 

went, cups 
! seats 

lumps 

plump 
talkative 

cheese 



* The Rev. John Russell, then minister of the Chapel of Ease, Kilmarnock, 
afterwards minister of StirliRg-rrSi coarse preacher. 



108 



BIDTRNS'S POEMS. 



The auld guidinen, about the grace, 
Frae side to side they bother, 

Till some ane by hi* \ bonnet lays, 

And gi'es theni't like a tether, 

Fu' la ng that day. 

Waesucks ! for him t hat gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that ha'o naething! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his bray r claithing ! 
Oh wives, be mindfu' ance yourseP 

How bonnie lads y e wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebt >uck-heel, 

Let lasses be aflron ted 

On sic ; i day ! 

Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow and croon ; 
Some swagger hame tl le best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies hal t a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, and love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How mony hearts this clay converts 

0' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As saft as ony flesh is . 
There's some are fou o' ilove divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' mony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 
Some ither day. 



Alas! 



do not, 
cheese 



clang, groan 
can 

hedge- 
breaches, 
fellows 



talk 

before 
full 

fornication 



BURNS's POEMS. 109 

HALLOWEEN, 

fls thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making 
beings, are all abroad on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those 
aerial people, the fairies, are said on that night to hold a grand anniver- 
sary — /?.] 

The following poem will, by many readers, be well enough understood ; but, 
for the sake of those who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of 
the country where the scene is cast, notes are added, to give some account of 
the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with prophecy to the 
peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a 
striking part of the history of human nature in its rude state, in all ages and 
nations ; and it may be some entertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such 
should honour the author with a perusal, to see the remains of it among the 
more unenlightened in our own.— B. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud aisdain, 

The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art. — Goldsmith. 

Upon that night, when fairies light, 

On Cassilis Downan's* dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, i ca 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Colean the route is ta'en, 

Beneath the moon's pale beams ; 
There, up the cove,f to stray and rove 

Amang the rocks and streams, 
To sport that night. 

Amang the bonnie, winding banks, 

Where Doon rins, wimptin', clear, meandering 

Where Bruce J ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

An' shook his Carrick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, country folks 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, and pou their stocks, nuts, pull 

An' haud their Halloween hold 

Fu' blythe that night. 

The lasses feat, and cleanly neat, trim 

Mair braw than when they're fine ; 

Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, show 

Hearts leal, and warm, and kin' : true 

* Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of the 
ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis.— B. 

t A noted cavern near Colean House, called the Cove of Colean ; which, as 
well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite haunt 
Of fairies.— Z?. 

X The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer 
pf his country, were Earls of Carrick.— B. 



110 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



The lads sae trig, wi' wooer 1 
Weel knotted on their garten, 

Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs, 
Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 
Whiles fast at ni^ht. 



spruce, 
lover's 
rosettes 

garter 

bashful, 
tongues 

make go 



Then, first and foremost thro' the kail, 

Their stocks* maun a' be sought ance; 
They steek their een, and graip and w\le, 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander 'd thro' the bow-kail : 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



cabbage 

close, eyes 

grope, 

choose 
large 
foolish 
cabbage 

pulled 

stem 

crooked 



Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane, 

They roar and cry a' throu'ther ; 
The vera wee-things toddlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther : 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

Wi' cannie care, they've placed them 
To lie that night. 



earth 

in confusion 

shoulder 
pith is 
clasp-knives 
then, snugly 
gentle 



The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 
To pou their stalks o' com ; f 

But Rab slips out, and jinks about, 
Behint the muclde thorn : 

He grippet Nelly hard an' fast, 
Loud skirl'd a' the lasses, 



stole 
pull 
dodges 
large 

screamed 



* The first ceremony of Halloween is, pulling each a stock, or plant of kail. 
They must go out, hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet 
with: its being big or little, straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and 
shape of the grand object of all their spells— the husband or wife. If any yird, 
or earth stick ti the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the custoc, 
that is, the heart of the stem, is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. 
Lastly, the stems, or, to give them their ordinary appellation, the runts, are 
placed somewhere above the head of the door; and the Christian names of the 
people whom chance brings into the house, are, according to the priority of 
placing the runts, the names in question.— B. 

t Thev go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three several times, a stalk of 
oats. If the third stalk wants the top-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of tho 
stalk, the party in question will come to the marviage-bed anything but a 
maid— B. 



BUHNS'S POEMS. Ill 

But her tap -pickle maist was lost almost 

When kiuttlin' in the fause -house* cuddling 

Wi' him that night. 

The auld guidwife's weel hoordet nits f well-hoarded 

Are round and round divided, 
And mony lads' and lasses' fates 

Are there that night decided : 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, agreeably 

And burn thegither trimly ; together 

Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

And jump out-owre the chimlie chimney 

Fu' high that night. 

Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; heedful 

Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; 
But this is Jock, and this is me, 

She says in to hersei' : 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 

As they wad never mair part ; 
Till, fuff ! he started up the lum, chimney 

And Jean had e'en a sair heart sore 

To see't that night. 

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; demure 

And Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, P et 

To be compared to Willie. 
Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, leapt 

And her ain fit it brunt it ; own foot 

While Willie lap, and swoor, by jing, swore 

'Twas just the way he wanted 
To be that night- 
Nell had the fause-house in her min': 

She pits hersei' and Rab in ; P uts 

In loving bleeze they sweetly join, hiaze 

Till white in ase they're sobbin'. ashes 

* When the com is in a doubtful state, by being too green or wet, the stack- 
builder, by means of old timber, Ac., makes a large apartment in his stack, 
with an opening in the side which is fairest exposed to the wind : this he calls a 
fause-house.— A 

t Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and lass to each 
particular nut, as they lay them in the tire, and accordingly as they burn 
Quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course acd issue of the 
courtship will be.— iff. 



112 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 
She whisper'd Rab to leuk for't : 

Rab, stowlins, prie'd her bonnie mou' 
Fu' cozie in the neuk fort, 

Unseen that night. 



look 

stealthily, 
kissed 
snugly, nook 



But Merran sat behint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

An' slips out by hersel 1 : 
She through the yard the nearest tak's 

An' to the kiln she goes then, 
An' darklins graipit for the banks, 

An 1 in the blue- clue * throws then, 
Bight fear't that night. 

And aye she win't and aye she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin : 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L — d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the de'il himself 

Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She didna wait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 



groped 
cross-beams 



winded, 

perspired 
know, 

dallying 



beam-end 



ask 



Wee Jenny to her granny says, 

u Will ye go wi' me, granny? 
I'll eat the applet at the glass, 

I gat frae uncle Johnnie : " 
She tuff 't her pipe wi' sic a hint, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin', 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 



blew, smoke 



hot cinder 
worsted 



* Whoever wonld, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these 
directions:— Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and, darkling, throw into the pot a 
clue of blue yarn; wind it in a clue off the old one, and towards the latter end, 
something will hold the thread; demand "Wha hauds?" that is, who holds? 
An answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 
surname of your future spouse.— B. 

t Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; eat an apple before it, and, 
some traditions say, you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your 
conjugal companion, to be, will be seen in the glass, as if peeping over your 
shoulder.— B. 



Ji 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



113 



u Ye little skelpie-limmer's face ! 

I daur you try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul thief ony place, 

For him to spae your fortune : 
Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye ha'e to fear it ; 
For mony a ane has gotten a fright, 

An' lived and died deleeret 
On sic a night. 

" Ae hairst afore the Sherra-moor — 

I mind't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

I was na past fyfteen : 
The simmer had been cauld and wat, 

An' stuff was unco green ; 
An' aye a ran tin' kirn we gat, 

An' just on Halloween 

It fell that night. 

44 Our stibble-rig was Eab M'Graen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow : 
He's sin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That lived in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,* I mind it weei, 

An' he made unco light o't ; 
But mony a day was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

And he swoor by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp seed a peck, 

For it was a' but nonsense. 
The auld guidman raught down the pock, 

And out a handfu' gi'ed him ; 
Syne bad' him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
And try't that night. 



>oung jade's 
dare 

tell 



delirious 



harvest 
yesterday- 
young girl 



very 

harvest- 
home 



head reaper 
child 

sorely 



righting 

swore 

sow 

reached 

gave 

then 

no one saw 



* Steal out, unperceived, and sow a handful of hemp seed, harrowing it with 
anything you can conveniently draw after you. Repeat, now and then, "Hemp 
seed, I saw thee, hemp seed, I saw thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true 
love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your left shoulder, and \ou 
will see the appearance of the person invoked, in the attitude of pulling 
hemp. Some traditions say, "Come after me and shaw thee," that is, show 
thyself; in which case it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and soy, 
"Come after me and harrow tuee." — B. 



114 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

The-' he was something sturtin; 
The graip he for a harrow tak's, 

And haurls at his curpin ; 
And ev'ry now and then he says, 

u Hempseed, I saw thee, 
And her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee 
As fast this night." 

He whistled up Lord Lennox' march, 

To keep his courage cheery ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'd and eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

And then a grane and gruntle ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

And tumbl'd wi' a whintle 

Out-owre that night. 



timorous 
dung-fork 

drags, rear 



geared, 
frightened 

grunt 
peep 

stagger 



He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
And young and auld cam' rinnin' out, 

To hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Merran Humphie ; 
Till, stop — she trotted thro' them a' — 

And wha was it but grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 



Halting 
crook- 
backed 

the pig 
astir 



Meg fain wad to the barn ha'e gane, 
To win three wechts o' naething ;t 

But for to meet the de'il her lane ? 
She pat but little faith in : 

She gi'es the herd a pickle nits, 
And twa red-cheekit apples, 



few 



* This charm must likewise be performed unperceived and alone. You co to 
the barn, and open both doors, taking them ort the hinges, if possible ; for there 
is danger that the being about to appear may shut the doors, and do you some 
mischief. Then take that instrument used in winnowing the corn, which, in 
our country dialect, we call a wecht; and £0 through all the attitudes of letting 
down corn aga'nst the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an 
apparition will piss through the barn, in at the windy door, and oat at the 
other, having both the figure in question, and the appearance or retinue, mark- 
ing the employment or station in life.— B, 



BURXS'S POEMS. 



115 



To -watch, while for the barn she sets, 
In hopes to see Tain Ki 

That vera mffhfc 



;urns the key wi' canny thraw, 
And owi ireshold ventures ; 

drst on Sawney gi'es a ca ? , 
Syne bauldly in she en; 3 
A ratton rattled up the wa\ 

And she cried. " L — d. preserve her ! ;5 

ran thro' midden he I 
And prayed wi 1 zeal and ferv:v.:". 
Fn 1 fast that night. 



gentia 



then 

_--heap 



They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice : 

They hecht him some fine braw aj 
It chane'd the stack he faddom't thrice.' 

Was timmer-propt for thrawing' ; 
He tak's a swirly auld moss oak 

For some black, grousome carlin ; 
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blypes cam hanrlin 1 
AiTa niei 



::::z::5el 



A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As canty as a kittlin : 
But. och ! that night, amang the shaws, 

She gat a fearfu settlin' ! 
She thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 

An' owre the hill gaed scriev. 
Whare three lairds' hinds met at a burn,* 

To dip her left sark sleeve in. 

Was bent that night. 



kitten 
woods 

gore, heap 
of stones 
went, gliding 

shift 



Whiles owre a lfn the btirnie plays, 
As through the glen it wimpl't ; 



s:~c:!z:e3 



* Take an opportunity of going unnoticed tG cm it 

e times round, The last fathom of the last time yc d in your arms 

the appearance of your future conjugal yoke-fellov..— Z. 

t You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring 
or rivulet, where "three laird's lands meet," and dip your lef: shirt-sleeve. Go 
to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie i~ ake; 
and some time near midnight an apparition, h ... 

grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve as if to drj the othei 
side of it. —B. 



116 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Whiles round a rocky scaur it strays ; 

Whiles in a wiel it dimpFt ; 
Whiles glitter' d to the nightly rays, 

Wi' bickerin', dancin' dazzle ; 
Whiles cookit underneath the braes, 

Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 



cliff 
eddy 

staggering 
appeared and 
disappeared 



ferns 

unhoused 
bullock 
moan 
sheath 
lark 
foot 
ears 



dishes 



Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her and the moon, 
The de'il, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up and gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool ; 

Near lav'roek-height she jumpit, 
But miss'd a fit, and in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three * are ranged 
An 1 ev'ry time great care is ta'en 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's year did desire, f 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, and fanny jokes, 

Their sports were cheap and cheery ; 
Till butter'd so'ns,t wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' then* gabs a-steerin' ; 
Syne wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blythe that night. 

* Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the 
third empty: blindfold a person and lead him to the hearth where the dishes 
are ranged; he (or she) diDS the left hand — if by chance in the clean water, the 
future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul 
a widow; if in the empty dish it foretells, with equal certainty, no marriape at 
all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes 
is altered.— B. 

t Earl of Mar's insurrection in 1715. 

t Buttered sowens is always the Halloween supper. 



empty 



talk 
know 



smoke 
mouths 
spirits 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



117 



ADDEESS TO THE DE'IL. 



O Prince • O chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led th' embattled seraphim to war.— Miltox. 

{This poem seems to have heen composed in the winter of 1784-5. "The 
curious idea of such an address was suggested to him "by running over in his 
mind the many ludicrous accounts and representations we have from various 
quarters of this august personage."— It is one of the happiest of his productions 
for humour combined with tenderness.] 

On thou ! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern, grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairgesf about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
A.n' let poor damned bodies be ; 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gre, 

E'en to a de'il, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 

An' hear us squeel ! 

Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far kenn'd an' noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy hame, 

Thou travels far ; 
An', faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whiles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey a' holes an' corners tryin' ; 
Whiles on the strong- wing'd tempest flyin', 

Tirlin' the kirks ; 
Whiles, in the human bosom pryin', 

Unseen thou lurks. 



foot-pail 
scald 



strike 



flaming 
hollow 



bashful, 
apt to be 
scared 



uncovering 



I've heard my reverend granny say, 
In lanely glens ye like to stray ; 
Or whare auld ruin'd castles, gray, 

.N od to the moon, 
Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way 

Wi' eldritch croon. 



grandam 



unearthly 
moan 



* Untranslatable:—" splashes about" 
think of. 



is feeble, though the closest we caa 



118 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



When twilight did my granny summon, 
To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 
Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bumming 

Wi' eerie drone ; 
Or, rustlin', thro' the boortrees comin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, 

The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, 

Wi' you, mysel', I gat a fright 

Ayont the lough ; 
Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 

Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 

When wi' an eldritch, stoor, quaick—quaick- 

Amang the springs, 
Awa' ye squatter'd, like a drake, 

On whistling wings. 

Let warlocks grim, and wither'd hags 9 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 
They skim the muirs and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed ; 
An' in kirk-yards renew their leagues 

Owre howkit dead. 



glancing 



rush 
deep sound 

fist 



unearthly, 
hoarse 



fluttered 



wizards 
ragwort 



dug up 



Thence country wives, wi' toil and pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain ; 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill 
And dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gane 

As yell's the bill. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
And float the jinglin' icy boord, 
Then water kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction ; 
And 'nighted travelers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 



churn 



thaws 
sprites 



And aft your moss -traversing spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk i* \ 



tgnesfaUii 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



119 



The bleezin', curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When masons' mystic word and grip 
In storms and tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest brother ye wad whip 

AfF straught to hell ! 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthful' lovers first were pair'd, 
And all the soul of love they shar'd, 

The raptur'd hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flow'ry sward, 

In shady bow'r :* 

Then you, ye auld sneck-drawing dog ! 

Ye came to Paradise incog, 

And play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa' !) 
And gi'ed the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz 

'Mang better folk, 
And sklented on the man of Uz 

Your spitefu' joke ? 

And how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
And brak' him out o' house and hall, 
While scabs and botches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw, 
And lows'd his ill-tongued, wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava' ? 

* Originally as follows:— 

Lang syne, in Eden's happy scene, 
When strappin' Adam's days were green r 
And Eve was like my bonnie Jean, 

My dearest part, 
A dancin', sweet, young handsome quean, 
0' guileless heart. 



stealthy 



trick 

shock 
almost 

bustle 

smoky rags, 
withered 
hair 

smutty 

glanced 



scolding 
wife 
of all 



120 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 

Your wily snares and fecktin' fierce, fighting 

Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Earse, ™ffi Low ' 

In prose or rhyme. 

And now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinking 

A certain bardie's rantin', drinkin'. 

Some luckless hour will send him linkin' tripping 

To your black pit ; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin', dodging 

And cheat you yet. 

But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben ! 
Oh wad ye tak' a thought and men 7 ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — P not know° 

Still ha'e a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK 

A TRUE STORY. 

[" Death and Dr. Hornbook, though not published in the Kilmarnock edition, 
was produced early in the year 1785. Mr. John Wilson, the schoolmaster of 
Tarholton parish, to eke out a scanty subsistence, set up a shop of grocery 
goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some medical books, and become 
most hobby-horsically attached to the study of medicine, he had added the sale 
of a few medicines to his little trade. He had got a shop-bill printed, at the 
bottom of which, overlooking his own incapacity, he had advertised that advice 
would be given in common disorders at the shop, gratis. Burns was at a 
mason meeting in Tarbolton, when the dominie unfortunately made too osten- 
tatious a display of his medical skill. As he parted in the evening from this 
mixture of pedantry and physic, at the place where he describes his meeting 
with Death, one of those floating ideas of apparitions he mentions in his letter 
to Dr. Moore crossed his mind ; this set him to work for the rest of the way 
home."— G. B. It is said that this satire rained poor Hornbook, and compelled 
him to leave Tarbolton. He removed to Glasgow, where he was appointed 
Session Clerk of Gorbals. Being a " fellow of infinite jest " himself, he enjoyed 
his reputation as Dr. Hornbook over many a punch-bowl.] 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
An' some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n ministers they ha'e been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid at times to vend, lie 

An' nail't wi' Scripture. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



121 



But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the de'il's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The clachan yill had made me canty — 

I was na' fou', but just had plenty ; 

I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches ; 
An' hillocks, stanes, and bushes kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists and witches. 



going 



great 

village ale 

drunk 
staggered, 
heed 



The rising moon began to glow'r 
The distant Cumnock hills out-owre; 
To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set niysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I could na tell. 



stare 



I was come round about the hill, 
An' toddlin' down on Willie's mill,* 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker ; 
Tho' leeward whiles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 



sure 

sometimes 
short race 



I there wi' something did forgather, 

That put me in an eerie swither ; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang ; 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large and lang. 

Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For fient a wame it had ava' ; 

And then, its shanks, 
They were as thin, as sharp and sma', 

As cheeks o' branks.f 



meet 

dismal hesi- 
tation 
shoulder 



fish-spear 



devil a belly 



* Tarbolton Mill, on the ror?d from the village to Mossgiel, occupied by 
William Muir, and called from him " Willie's Mill." 
t A sort of bridle for cows formed of a wooden frame and rope, 



122 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



"Guid e'en," quo' I; "Friend, ha'e ye been niawin ? , mowing 
When ither folk are busy sawin'?"* sowing 

It seem'd to mak' a kind o' stan', 

But naething spak' ; 
At length says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun — going 

Will ye go back?" 



It spake right howe — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath ; 

But tent me, billie — 
Iredeyeweel, tak' care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully !" 



hollow 
frightened 

observe, lad 
counsel, 
harm 
clasp-knife 



" Guidman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, knife 

I'm no designed to try its mettle ; 

But if 4 1 did, I wad be kittle, difficult 

To be mislear'd ; led astray 

I wad na mind it, no, that spittle 

Out-owre my beard." 

" Weel, weel ! " says I, " a bargain be't ; 

Come, gi'es your hand, and sae we're gree't \ agreed 

We'll ease our shanks, and tak' a seat — 

Come, gi'es your news ; 
This while ye ha'e been mony a gate, road 

In mony a house. "f 

44 Ay, ay !" quo he, and shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

And choke the breath : 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

And sae maun Death. 



" Sax thousand years are near hand fled 

Sin' I was to the butching bred, 

And mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me ; 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade, 

And faith he'll waur me. 



stop, scare 
worst 



* It was seed time. 

t An epidemical fever had been very prevalent 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



*' Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the clachan, 
Deil mak' his king's-hood in a spleughan ! 
He's grown sae well acquant wi' Buchan * 

And ither chaps, 
The weans haud out their fingers laughing 

And pook my hips. 

44 See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They ha'e pierc'd mony a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook wi' his art 

An' cursed skill, 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t ; 

D— d haet they'll kill. 

44 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane ; 

W? less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain ; 

But de'il-ma'-care, 
It just play'd dirl f on the bane, 

But did nae mair. 



village 
tobacco- 
pouch 

lads 

children, 
hold 
pull 



whit 
yester-even 



44 Hornbook was by wi' ready art, 
An' had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt, 
Rent haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 



devil a whit 
cabbage stem 



44 1 drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand coupit wi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld apothecary 

Withstood the shock ; 
I might as weel ha'e tried a quarry 

0' hard whin rock. 



tumbled 
bold 



44 An' then a' doctor's saws and whittles, 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, and metals, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, and bottles, 

He's sure to ha'e ; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As ABC. 



knives 



o Buchan's Domestic Mediant, 

| A short tremulous blow— untranslatable 



124 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



" Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees ; 
True sal-marinuiu o' the seas ; 
The farina of beans and peas, 

He kas't in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" Forbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons ; 

Or mite-horn shavings, filings, scrapings, 

Distill' d per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

An' mony mae." 

44 Waes me for Johnnie Ged's* Hole now," 
Quo' I ; u if that thae news be true, 
His braw calf- ward f whare go wans grew, 

Sae white and bonnie, 
ISTae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew ; 

They'll ruin Johnnie!" 



besides 



these 
wild daisies 

plough 



The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh, 
An' says, M Ye need na yoke the pleugh, 
Kirkyards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak' ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 

u Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood or want o' breath, 
This night I'm free to tak' my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 



unearthly 



furrow 



natural 



oatli 
cloth 



44 An honest wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce weel-bred, 

Gat tippence worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair ; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak' mair. 



weaver 
fists 



slid gently 



* The grave-digjrer. 

t The churchyard had heen used as <; pasture ground lor calves. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



125 



44 A country laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

And pays him well — 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer pets, 

Was laird himsel'. 

41 That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way ; 
Thus goes he on from day to day, 
Thus does he poison, kill, and slay, 

An's weel paid for't ; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey 

Wi' his d— d dirt. 



colic 

rumbling, 
bowels 



young ewes 



sample 



44 But hark, I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though dinna ye be speakin' o't ; 
I'll nail the self- conceited sot 

As dead's a herein' : 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin' 1" 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee short hour ayont the twal, 

Which rais'd us baith ; 
I took the way that pleas'd mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



next, bet 



struck 
beyond, 
twelve 



THE BRIGS OF AYR 

[ This poem was published for the first time in the first Edinburgh edition. 
It resembles Ferguson's "Ghaists," and also his "Causeway and Plainstanes," 
but not very closely. The fairy dance on the " infant ice" beneath the " silent 
moon" is beautiful.] 

INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTTNE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough ; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn 

bush ; 
The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shri;!, 
Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the 

hill : 



126 ■BHUS'fi FOEMS. 

Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field- 
Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ! 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ! 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncouthlv o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward ! 
Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, 
Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace ; 
When Ballantyne befriends his humble name, 
And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, 
With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 

'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, cover 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap ; thatch 

Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith heaps, harm 

Of coming Winter's biting, frosty breath ; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds' and flow'rs' delicious spoils. 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles. 
Are doom'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : smothered 
The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide ; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 
Nae mair the flow'r in field or meadow springs ; no morc 
Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 
Except, perhaps, the robin's whistlin' glee, 
Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 
The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 
Mild, calm, serene, wide-spreads the noon-tide blaze, 
While thick the gossamer waves wanton in the rays, 

'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, 
Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward 3 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



127 



Ae night withm the ancient brugh of Ayr, ' ; tagb 

By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, 

He left his bed, and took his wayward rout, 

And down by Simpson's* wheel' d the left about- 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate ; 

Or, whether, rapt in meditation high, 

^He wandered out he knew not where or why) 

The drowsy dungeon- clockf had number'd two, 

And Wallace Tower J had sworn the fact was true ; 

The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore. 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e : 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently crusting, o'er the glittering stream. 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 

The clanging sough of whistling wings is heard ; hollow sound 

Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 

Swift as the gos § drives on the wheeling hare ; 

A ne on the Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, 

The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 

Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd wizard 

The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 

(That bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 

And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk ; 

Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them. 

And ev'n the vera de'ils they brawly ken them.) 

Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 

The very wrinkles Gothic in his face : 

He seem'd as he wi' Time had wrastl'd lang, 

Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 

1ST ew Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 

That he at London, frae ane Adams, got ; 

In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 

Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 

The Goth was stalking round with anxious search, 

Spying the time worn flaws in ev'ry arch ;— 



wrestled 
stout endea- 
vour 
dressed 



rings, orna- 
ments 



* A noted tavern at the Auld Erig end. 

f A clock in a steeple connected with the old jail of Ayr, removed some years 
ego. 

X A piece of antique masonry, surmounted by a spire, in the High Street of 
Ayr, removed some years aga and replaced by a tower, which bears its name, 

§ The gos-hawk, or falcon.— # 



128 BURNS'S POEMS. 



It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 

And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 

Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, spiteful 

He, down the water, gi'es him this guid-e'en: — good evening 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na', frien', ye '11 think ye're nae sheepshank, 
Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ! stretched 

But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith, that day I doubt ye'll never see , 
There'll be, if that date come, I'll wad a boddle, wager, doit 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. crotchets 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Yandal, you but show your little mense, manners 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense ; 
Will your poor, narrow footpath of a street, 
Whare twa wheel-barrows tremble when they meet — 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime, 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time? 
There's men o' taste wou'd tak' the Ducat- stream,* 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark an' swim, 8llirt 

Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! puff 'd up wi' windy pride ! — fool 
This mony a year I've stood the flood and tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfliirn, agei J aded 

I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
But twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course, 
Or haunted Garpalf draws his feeble source, 

Arous'd by blustfring winds and spottinp; thowes, thaws 

T J , , ,° , . t_ snow-water 

In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; ro iis 

* A noted ford just above the Auld Brig.— B. 

f The banks of Garpal Water is one of the few places in the west of Scotland 
where those fancy-scaring beings, known by the name of Ghaists, still continue 
pertinaciously to inhabit— B. 






BURNS'S POEMS. 129 

While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, flood 

Sweeps dams and mills, and brigs, a' to the gate ; away 

And from Glenbuck,* down to the Ratton-key f 

Auld Ayr is just one lengthen' d tumbling sea — 

Then down ye'll hurl, de'il nor ye never rise ! 

And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. Splashes 

A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost, 

That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't ! in truth 

The L— d be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ! lo ^ hQ way 

Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices, 

Hanging with threat'ning jut-like precipices ; 

O'er-arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculpture drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest ; 

Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second dread command be free, 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, stupid 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace ; 

Or cuifs of latter times wha held the notion fools 

That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion ; 

Fancies that our good Brugh denies protection ! burgh 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

Oh ye, my dear-remember'd ancient yealings, coevals 

Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 

Ye worthy Proveses, and mony a Bailie, 

Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye; 

Ye dainty Deacons and ye douce Conveners, sober 

To whom our moderns are but causey -cleaners ; scavengers 

Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 

Ye godly brethren o' the sacred gown, 

* The source of the river Ayr.— B. 

t A small landing-place above the large quay.— B E 



ISO BURNS'S POEMS. 

Wha meekly ga'e your hurdies to the smiters ; posteriors 

And (what would now be strange) ye godly writers ; 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo, above water 

Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degenerate race ! 
Nae langer rev'rend men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story ! broad 
Nae langer thrifty citizens and douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house ; 
But staumrel, corky-headed, graceless gentry, half-witted 

The herryment and ruin of the country ; plunder 

Men, three parts made by tailors and by barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hained gear on d — d new well-saved 
Brigs and Harbours ! mone y 

NEW BRIG. 

Now haud you there ! for faith you've said enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak' to through ; make good 
As for your priesthood, I shall say but little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle ; r tkkiisli 

But, under favour o' your langer beard, 
Abuse o' Magistrates may weel be spar'd : 
To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 
I must needs say comparisons are odd. 
In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 
To mouth u a citizen " a term o' scandal ; 
Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 
In all the pomp of ignorant conceit ; 

Men wha grew wise priggin' owre hops and raisins, haggling 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge on a random tramp, 
Had shor'dthem wi' a glimmer of his lamp, offered 

And would to Common Sense for once betray 'd them, 
Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 



What further clish-ma-claver might been said, idle talk 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell ; but all before their sight, 
A fairy train appear' d in order bright ; 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featly danc'd ; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 131 

They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 

The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet I 

While arts of minstrelsy among them rung, 

And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties sung. 

Oh had M'Lauchlan,* thairm-inspiring sage, fiddle-string 

Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 

When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage ; 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler hVd, ear 

And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard ; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the stream in front appears, 

A venerable Chief advanc'd in years ; 

His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 

His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 

Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 

Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring ; 

Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 

And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 

All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 

Led yellow Autumn, wreath' d with nodding corn ; 

Then Winters time-bleach' d locks did hoary show, 

By Hospitality with cloudless brow. 

Next folio w'd Courage, with his martial stride, 

From where the Feal wild woody coverts hide ;f 

Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 

A female form came from the tow'rs of Stair :f 

Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 

From simple Catrine, their long-lov'd abode :§ 

Last, white-rob' d Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath, 

To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments of death ; 
At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling 

wrath. 

* A well-known performer of Scottish mnsic on the violin. 

t A small stream which runs near Coilsfield. 

$ Mrs. Stewart of Stair. She afterwards removed to Afton Lodge. 

$ The retreat of Professor Dngald Stewart 



132 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR 
MAILIE, 

THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 

An unco mournful Tale. 

[This poem was written before 17S4. Burns had, partly by way of frolic, 
bought a ewe and two lambs from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field 
adjoining the house at Lochlea. As he and his brother Gilbert were going out 
with their teams, Hugh Wilson, a curious-looking awkward boy, came to them 
with much anxiety in his face, and informed them that the ewe had entangled 
herself in the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Burns, much tickled with 
Hughoc's appearance and postures on the occasion, immediately set to work on 
the poem, and recited it to his brother Gilbert in the evening after their 
return from the plough.] 



As Mailie, and her lambs thegither, 
Were ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch: 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc* he cam' doytin' by. 

Wi 1 glowering een and lifted han's, 
Poor Hnghoc like a statue stands ; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it. 
He gaped wide but naething spak' — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak'. 

" Oh thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
Oh bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will ; 
So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo' ! 

11 Tell him he was a master kin', 
An' aye was guid to me an' mine ; 

• A neibor herd-callalL 



together 

foot, loop 
struggled 

walking 
stupidly 

staring 



broke 



much money 



drive 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



133 



An' now my dying charge I gi'e him — 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

14 Oh, bid him save their harmless lives 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gi'e them guid cow -milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay, an' ripps o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gates 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets ; 
To slink through slaps, an' reive an' steal 
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mony a year come through the shears : 
So wives will gi'e them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 



foxes 

provide for 
care for 
handfuls 

ways 
restless 

cabbage 
ancestors 



children cry 



44 My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir, 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care : 
An' if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 



put, manners 



" An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 



will not 
ewes 

feet 
senseless 



"And neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee frae a tether string ; 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, 
But aye keep mind to mo op and mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'. 



next 
good 
meet 



mump 
associate 



u And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith : 
And when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 



both 



4< Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale ; 



do not 



134 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



And bid Mm burn this cursed tether, 
And for thy pains thou's get my blether." 
This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head, 
And clos'd her een amang the dead. 



bladder 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 

[The elegy resembles "The Ewie and the Crooked Horn," 
and Death of the Piper of Kilbarchan."] 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi 1 saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane of his woes — 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear, 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or mak' our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neibor dear, 

In Mailie dead ! 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him ; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam' nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 



and Semple's "Life 



salt 



wealth 



pensive 



town 



I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
And could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't she never brak' a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 



know 

discretion 

broke 

inner room 



Or, if he wanders up the howe, 

Her living image in her yowe, 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
And down the briny pearls rowe 

For Maalie dead. 



valley 

ewe 

hillock 

roll 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



135 



She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, and hairy hips, 

For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ; 
A bonnier fleesh ne'er cross 'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 



tups 
matted 
fleece 
ancestors 
beyond 
fleece 



Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That Vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It mak's guid fellows girn and gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
And Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape 

For Mailie dead. 



unlucky 
grin 



Oh, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune I 
Come join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon — 

His Mailie's dead ! 



THE AULD FARMER'S NEW- YEAR MORNING SALU- 
TATION TO HIS AULD MARE MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED HIPP OF CORN TO 
HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 

[Burns is remarkable for his sympathy with the inferior animals. He speaks 
for them and pleads for them as powerfully and as penetratingly as for his 
fellow-men.] 



A guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Hae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie: 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, and knaggie, 

»I've seen the day 
Thou could ha'e gaen like ony staggie 
Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy, 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek, and glaizie, 

A bonnie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raise thee 

Ance in a day. 



handful, 
belly 

hollow- 
hacked, 
bony 

gone, colt 

lea 



drooping 



smooth 



dared 



156 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could ha'e flown out-owre a stank, 

Like ony bird. 

It's now some nine-and-twenty year 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's mere ; 
He gi'ed me thee, o' tocher clear 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel won gear, 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin' wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickie, slee, and funny, 

Ye ne'er was donsie ; 
But namely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 

That day ye pranc'd wi' mickle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 



earth 
morass 



riches 
strong 

went 
mother 

sly- 
mischievous 

tractable 
very engag- 
ing 

much 
bore 



such 



Tho' now ye dow but hoyt an' hobble 
An' wintle like a saumont- coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far, behin' ! 

When thou an' I were young an' skeigh, 

An' stable meals at fairs were dreigh, 

How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' tak' the road ! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 



can, limp 

stagger, 

salmon 



reel 



off 



When thou was corn't, and I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow : 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



137 



At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow 
For pith and speed ; 

But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 
Whare'er thou gaed. 



marriage- 
races 



The sma' droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle ; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

And gar't them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 

0' saugh or hazel. 



perhaps 
worsted, 
race 

m ide, 
■wheeze 

willow 



Thou was a noble fittie Ian',* 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 
Aft thee and I, in aucht hours gane, 

In guid March weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han' 

For days thegither. 



eight, gone 

have, six 
together 



Thou never braindg't and fetch't, and flisldt, 
But thy auld tail thou wad ha'e whiskit, 
And spread abreed thy weel fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith and pow'r, 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and risket, 

And slypet owre.f 



raged, kicked 
would have 
abroad, 
breast 



"When frosts lay lang, and snaws were deep, 
And threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gi'ed thy cog a wee-bit heap 

Aboon the timmer ; 
I kenn'd my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 



gave, dish 
above, edge 



In cart or car thou never reestit ; 

The steyest brae thou wad ha'e fac'd it; 

Thou never lap, an' sten't, an' breastit, 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 



stood 

restive 
steepest 

declivity 
leapt, 

stretched 

hasted 
pushed on 



* The near horse of the hindmost pair in the plough. 

t The hillocks where the earth was full of tough rooted plants, would have given 
forth a cracking sound, and the clods gentlv fallen over. 



138 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



My pleugh is now thy bairn -time a' ; 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw: 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Mony a sair daurk we twa ha'e wrought, 
An' wi' the weary war? fought! 
An' mony an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' something yet. 

An' think na, my auld trusty se rvan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin', 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart,* I'll reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll flit thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



brood 

besides six 
more 

thirteen 
pounds 
very worst 

day's work 



would 



"fill" of corn 



move 

heedful 
saved ridge 
stretch 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER TO 

THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE 

HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of distillation ! last and best r 
How art thou lost !— Parody on AIh/toh 

[Composed at the end of 1785, or beginning of 1786, on the occasion of the 
great outcry by the Scotch distillers against the rigour with which the Excise 
Laws were then enforced.] 

Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires, • 
Wha represent our brughs and shires, 



* Eighth part of a bushel. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



139 



An' doucely manage our affairs soberly 

In parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roopit Muse is hearse ! husky 

Your honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, 
To see her sittin' on her a — 

Low i' the dust, 
An' scriechin' out prosaic verse, screeching 

An' like to burst ! 



Tell them wha' ha'e the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On aqua vitas ; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth,* 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If. ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thooin ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em : 
If honestly they canna' come, 

Far better want 'em. 



great 



frown 
trouble, 
thumb 
swim 



In gatherin' votes you were na' slack ; 
]STow stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' fidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack, 

Before them a'. 



ear, .shrug 
speech 



Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle, weeping 

Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whigsle ; jug. empty 

* The Right Hon. William Pitt, First Lord of the Treasury, and Chancellor of 
the Exchequer. 



140 



BURNS S POEMS. 



An' d — mn'd excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin' a stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 



still 
limpet 



Then on the tither hand present her, 
A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, 
An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 



other 



side by side, 
fat faced 



Is there, that bears the name o' Sect, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plundered o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows' knaves ? 



broken 



Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight! 
But could I like Montgomeries fight,* 

Or gab like Boswell,f 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 



talk 



God bless your honours, can ye see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them, with a patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ? 



cheerful old 
woman 



make 
will not 



Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak' harangues: 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 



* A compliment to Hugh Montgomery, of Coilsfield, M.P. for Ayrshire, an* 
afterwards Earl of Eglintoune. He had served in the American war, 
f James Boswell of Auchinleck, the noted biographer of Johnson. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



141 



Dempster,* a true blue Scot I'se warran'; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;f 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, 

The Laird o' Graham ;J 
An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name.§ 



ready- 
tongued 

sagacious 



Erskine,|| a spunkie Norland billie ; 
True Campbells, Frederick^" and Hay ;* * 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie ; 

An 7 mony ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 



spirited, 
fellow 



See, sodger Hugh, my watchman steuted, 

If bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken if that your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend a hand, 
But when there's ought to say anent it, 

Ye're at a stand.ft 



appointed 



about 



Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle : 
Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'llsee't or lang; 
She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle, 

Anither sang. 



pledge, 
plough- 
cleaner 

ere 

knife 



This while she's been in crankous mood, fretful 

Her lost militia fir'd her bluid ; 

(De'il na they never mair do guid, more, good 

Play'd her that pliskie !) trick 

An' now she's like to rin red-wud stark mad 

About her whisky. 



* George Dempster of Dunnichen, Forfarshire, an eminent Scottish Whig re- 
presentative, 
t Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. 

I The Marquis of Graham, afterwards Duke of Montrose. 

§ The Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M.P. for Edinburghshire, afterwards Vis- 
count Melville. 

II Thomas Erskine, afterwards Lord Erskine. (?) 

^[ Lord Frederick Campbell, Lord Register of Scotland, and M.P. /or the 
county of Argyll. 

** Hay Campbell, Lord-Advocate for Scotland, M.P. for tne Glasgow group of 
burghs. 

It This stanza was left out by the author in deference to Montgomery. 



142 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



An' Lord! if ance they pit her tilTt, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' durk an 7 pistol at her belt, 

Shell tak' the streets, 
And rin her whittle to the hilt, 

I' th' first she meets ! 



put, to it 



knife 



For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive wi' a' your wit an' lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gi'e him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An' send him to his dicing box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's,* 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bannocks,t 
An' drink his health in auld Xanse Tinnock'sJ 

Nine times a-week, 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,§ 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, 

The Coalition. 



stroke, 
gently- 
large 



hot 

frighten the 
fellqw 



good blood 



windows 



oath, broad 



Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung ; 



fearless 
cudgel 



* Mr Pitt's father, the Earl of Chatham, was the second son of Robert Pitt of 
Boconnock, Cornwall. 

t " Scones made from a mixture of oats, peas, or beans, -with wheat or barley, 
ground fine, and denominated viashlum." — statistical Account of Scotland. 

J A worthy old hostess of the author's in AJauchline, where he sometimes 
studies politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch drink.— B. 

§ " The young Chancellor of the Exchequer had gained some credit by a mea- 
sure introduced in 1784 for preventing smuggling of tea by reducing the dutv, 
the revenue being compensated by a tax on windows."— Q/b. 






BURNS'S POEMS. 143 

An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak' their part, 
Tho* by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 

May still your mither's heart support ye ; 

Then, though a minister grow dorty, saucy 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

,God bless your honours a' your days, spoonfuls, 

Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise, bro ^' 

In spite o' a' the thievish kaes, daws 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble poet sings an' prays, 

While Rab his name is. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise ; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe an' frisky, 
She eyes her freeborn, martial boys 

Tak' aff their whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish' d swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther ; shoulder 

They downa bide the stink o' powther ; cannot 

Their bauldest thought's a hankering s wither hesitation 

To stan' or rin, 

Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, pell-mell 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 



144 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Say such is royal George's will, 

And there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him ; 
Death comes — wi' fearless eye he sees him ; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gi'es him ; 

And when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin' lea'es him 

In faint huzzas ! 



Sages their solemn e'en may steek, 
And raise a philosophic reek, 
And physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 



close 



Scotland, my auld, respected mither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather 

Ye tine your dam ; 
Freedom and whisky gang thegither !- 

Tak' aff your dram ! 



sometimes 



go, tog-ether 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

[Written in spring 1786, in the style of the "Caller Water" of Ferguson.] 

Gi'e him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair ; 
And liquor guid to fire his bluid. 

That's prest wi' grief and care : 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

And minds his griefs no more.— Solomon's Proverbs, rxxl. C. 7. 

Let other poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus, 

And crabbit names and stories wrack us, rex 

And grate our lug, ear 

I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak' us, barley 

In glass or jug. 



BURNS S POEMS. 



145 



Oh thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch drink : 
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink 

In glorious faem, 
Inspire me till I lisp and wink, 

To sing thy name ! 



twisting 1 , 

turn 
froth 
foam 



Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
And peas and beans, at e'en or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 



Thou king o' grain ! 



On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
In souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood 

Wi' kail and beef: 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 



valleys 
oats, bearded 



blessings on 



chews, cud 
supple 
cakes, best 

cabbage 



Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin' ; belly 

Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heavy dragg'd wi* pine and grievin' ; 

But, oil'd by thee, 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin', gliding 

Wi' rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear ; s ££ id leara * 

Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care ; 

Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, sore 

At's weary toil ; 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 



Aft clad in massy siller weed, 

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head ;* 

Yet humbly kind in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 



porridge 



* When served in silver mugs at the tables of the wealthy. 



146 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd, 
When gaping they besiege the tents,* 

Are doubly fir'd. 



without 
saints 



That merry night we get the corn in, 
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin' on a new-year morning 

In cog or bicker, 
And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in s 

And gusty sucker ! 



foams 

wooden 
dishes 

tasty sugar 



When Yulcan gi'es his bellows breath, 

And ploughmen gather wi' their graith, horse gear 

Oh rare ! to see thee fizz and freath froth 

I' th' lugget caup ! eared cnp 

Then Burnewin comes on like death blacksmith 

At ev'ry chap. stroke 

!Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel ; iron 

The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, bony, fellow 

Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, over the hips 

The strong forehammer, 

Till block and studdie ring an' reel anvil 

Wi' dinsonie clamour. 



When skirlin' weanies see the light, 
Thou mak's the gossips clatter bright, 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight ; 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 



screaking 
babies 

coofs 

midwife 
coin 



When neebors anger at a plea, 

And just as wud as wud can be, mad 

How easy can the barley bree liquor 

Cement the quarrel ! 
Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 

* Sit round the moveable pulpits used in celebrating the communion in th9 
open air. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



147 



Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But mony daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors nice, 
An' hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'er spier her price. 



blame 
wet, throat 



ask 



Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' mony a pain an' brash ! 
Twins mony a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



sickness 
deprives, 
stupid, fool 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well, 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, 
Your plackless devils like mysel', 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 



coinless 
meddle 



May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky punch 

Wi' honest men ! 



bladder 



mouth, 
frown 



Oh whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! oh sadly lost ! * 
Scotland lament frae coast to coast ! 



* On account of public services at the revolution, Forbes of Culloden was 
granted the privilege of distilling whisky free of duty, in Ferintosh, Cromarty- 
shire, which, in the course of time, became famous for the quality of the spirits 
produced. In 1783, however, this privilege was abolished, and a sum of £2l t 5S0 
was awarded by a jury in lieu thereof. It is to the loss of the privilege that the 
poet here refers, 



148 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Now colic grips, and barkin' hoast, cough 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 

Wha mak' the whisky stells their prize ! stills 

Haud up thy han', De'il ! ance, twice, thrice ! hold 

There, seize the blinkers ! fellows 

An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor d — n'd drinkers. 

Fortune ! if thou'll but gi'e me still whole 

Hale breeks, a scone, an' whisky gill, cake* 03 ' 

An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, plenty 

Tak' a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



A WIOTER NIGHT. 

["This poem is worth several homilies on mercy, for it is the voice of mercy 
herself."— Thomas Caelyle.] 

Poor naked wretches, wberesoe'er you are, 
That bide the pelting of the pitiless storm ! 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, 
Tour looped and windowed raggedness. defend jou 
From seasons such as these.— Shakspeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, keei ^ stern 

Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r ; 

When Phoebus gi'es a short lived glow'r stare 

Far south the lift, sky 

Dim- darkening thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 

Wild eddying swirl, 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, vomited 

Down headlong hurl. 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 149 

Listening, the doors and winnocks rattle, windows 

I thought me on the ourie cattle, drooping 

Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle beating 

O' winter war, 

An' through the drift, deep lairing sprattle, scramULa 

Beneath a scaur. ciiff 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, each 

That, in the merry months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee ! 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering wing, shivering 

An' close thy e'e ? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd, 
The blood-stain'd roost, an' sheep-cot spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, 
Dark muffled, viewed the dreary plain ; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul, 
When on my ear this plaintive strain 

Slow, solemn, stole : — 

" Blow, blow ye winds with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
Not all your rage, as now united, shows 

More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 

Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows ! 

See stern oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad ambition's gory hand, 

Sending, like bloodhounds from the slip, 
Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 

E'en in the peaceful rural vale, 

Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pamper' d Luxury, Flattery by her side, 

The parasite empoisoning her ear, 

With all the servile wretches in the rear, 



150 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, 
A creature of another kind, 
Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
With lorldly Honour's lofty brow, 
The powers you proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour dark the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone ! 
Mark maiden innocence a prey 

To love -pretending snares, 
This boasted Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, 
Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers ! 
Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid nest, 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking 
blast ! 

Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think for a moment on his wretched fate, 

Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
Ill satisfied keen nature's clamorous call, 

Stretched on his straw he lays himself to 
sleep, 
While through the ragged roof and chinky 
wall, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap ; 
Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wretch, already crushed low 
By cruel fortune's undeserved blow ! 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress ; 
A* brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !" 

I heard nae mair, for chanticleer no morQ 

Shook off the powthery snaw, powdery 

And hailed the morning with a cheer— 
A cottage rousing craw. 



bursts's POEMS. 151 

But deep this truth impress'd my mind — 

Through all his works abroad, 
The heart benevolent and kind 

The most resembles God. 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 

A DIRGE. 

[In £i letter to Mrs. Dunlop, Burns says, " I had an old granduncie, with 
whom my mother lived while in her girlish years; the good old man, for such 
he was, was long "blind ere he died ; during which time, his highest enjoyment 
was to sit down and cry, while my mother would sing the simple old song of the 
'Life and Age of Man.'" The metrical structure, and some other features of 
the poem, resemble this old stall ballad, which Mr. CromeK: recovered by recita- 
tion from Burns's mother, and which opens thus :— 

Upon the sixteen hunder year, 

Of God and fifty-three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifie ; 
On January the sixteenth day, 

As I did ly alone, 
TVitL many a sigh and sob did say, 

Ah ! Man is made to moan.] 

When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One ev'ning as I wandered forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 

I spied a man whose aged step 
Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 

His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 
And hoary was his hair. 

" Young stranger whither wand'rest thou ?" 
Began the rev'rend sage : 

II Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 

Or youthful pleasure's rage? 
Or haply prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man. 

u The sun that overhangs yon moors, 

Out -spreading far and wide, 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordlings pride : 



152 . BURNS'S POEMS. 

I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return, 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

11 Oh man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Misspending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway ; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn. 

u Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported is his right : 
But see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn ; 
Then age and want — oh ! ill match'd pair !- 

Show man was made to mourn. 

44 A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest ; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, oh ! what crowds in every land, 

All wretched and forlorn ! 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn — 

That man was made to mourn. 

44 Many and sharp the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frame! 
More pointed still we make ourselves 

Regret, remorse, and shame ; 
And man. whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 

u See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 
So abject, mean, and vile, 






burns's TOEMS. 163 

Who begs a brother of the earth . 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, though a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

"If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave — 

By Nature's law designed — 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and power 

To make his fellow mourn ? 

" Yet, let not this too much, my son, 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man, 

Had never, sure, been born, 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

" Oh Death ! the poor man's dearest friend — 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour, my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn ! 
But, oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary -laden mourn?" 



15-4 BURNS'S POEMS. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE EIGIDLY 
RIGHTEOUS. 

My son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thearithcv $ 
The Rigrid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither ; 
The cleanest corn that ere was dight 

May ha'e some pyles o* caff in; 
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffin'.— Solomon.— Eccles. ch. vii. ver. 16. 

[Burns's deep insight into the action of the human heart, gave him a wide 
range of sympathies, of which there could hardly he cited a better evidence than 
the following.] 

Oh ye wha are sae guid yoursel', so good 

Sae pious an' sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark an' tell 

Your neebours fauts an' folly! fanlts 

Whase life is like a weel gaun mill, we u going 

Supplied wi 3 store o' water, 
The heaped happer's ebbing still, hopper's 

An' still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
'.That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door, prudent 

For glaiket Folly's portals ; idle 

I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propone defences, 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, unlucky 

Their failings an' mischances. 



Ye see your state wi' theirs compar'd, 

An' shudder at the niffer, 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What mak's the mighty differ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in, 
An' (what's aft mair than a' the lave) oft more. 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gi'es now an' then a wallop, 
What ragings must his veins convulse, 

That still eternal gallop , 



exchange 



rest 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 155 

Wi' wind an* tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco lee -way. 

See social life an' glee sit down, 

All joyous an' unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrified, they're grown 

Debauchery an' drinking : 
Oh would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences ; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

D-mnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Tied up in godly laces, 
Before ye gi'e poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases ; 
A dear loved lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, ear 

Ye'er aiblins nae temptation. perhaps no 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Though they may gang a kennin' wrang, small matter 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving why they do it : 
An' just as lamely can ye mark, 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each chord — its various tone, 

Each spring — its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



156 BURNS'S POEMS. 

A DREAM. 

Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason : 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason 

[On reading, in the public papers, the "Laureate's Ode,"* with the other 
parade of June 4, 1786, the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined 
himself transported to the birth-day levee ; and in his dreaming fancy made 
the following " Address."] 

Guid mornin' to your Majesty ! 

May Heaven augment your blisses, 
On ev'ry new birth -day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My hardship here, at your levee, 

On. sic a day as this is, such 

Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae birth-day dresses tnese 

Sae fine this day. so 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 
By many a lord and lady ; 

II God save the king !" 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said aye ; vel 7 

The poets, too, a venal gang, 

Wi' rhymes weel turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar ye trow ye ne'er do wrang, make 

But aye unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

For me ! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; will not 

For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on your grace, no 

Your kingship to bespatter ; 
There's mony waur been o' the race, worse 

And aiblins ane been better perhaps one 

Than you this day. 

• Thomas Warton was then in this office. His ode for June 4, 1786, begins 
as follows;-— 

When Freedom nurs'd her native fire 
In ancient Greece, and ruled the lyre, 
Her bards disdainful from the tyrant's brow 

The tinsel gifts of flattery tore, 
But paid to guiltless power their willing vow, 
And to the throne of virtuous kings, &j. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



157 



'Tis very true, my sovereign king, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But facts are chiels that winna ding, 

And downa be disputed : 
Your royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft and clouted,* 
And now the third part of the string, 

And less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 



fellows, be 
beaten 
cannot 

broken and 
patched 



Far be't frae me that I aspire 

To blame your legislation, 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire, 

To rule this mighty nation ! 
But faith ! I muckle doubt, my sire, 

Ye've trusted ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre, 

Wad better fill'd their station 
Than courts yon day. 



much 
fellows 



And now ye've gi'en auld Britain peace ; 

Her broken shins to plaister ; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece, 

Till she has scarce a tester ; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease, 

Nae bargain wearing faster, 
Or, faith ! I fear, that wi' the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 



behoved 
field 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges 
(And Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges). 
That he intends to pay your debt, 

And lessen a' your charges ; 
But, G-d-sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonnie bargesf 
And boats this day. 



fellow's child 
asperses 



• The American colonies being lost 

t "On the supplies for the navy being voted, spring 17SG, Captain Macbride 
counselled some changes in that force, particularly the giving up of 04-gun 
ships, which occasioned a good deal of discussion." — Ch. 



158 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Adieu, my liege ! may freedom geek sport 

Beneath your high protection ; 
An' may ye rax corruption's neck, stretch 

An' gi'e her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gi'es ye ? 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, cnMren 

Still higher may they heeze ye raise 

In bliss, till fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 

For you, young potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely ; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, sorely 

That e'er ye brak' Diana's pales, broke 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie,* 
By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known colt 

To mak' a noble aiver ; cart horse 

So, ye may doucely fill a throne, prudently 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : talk 

There, him at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 

An' yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John, 

tt 7 -u arrant scape 

He was an unco shaver CTace 

For mony a day. 



grace 



For you, right rev'rend Osnaburg,t 
Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 

* Charles James Fox. 

t Frederick, the second son of George m., Bishop of Osnaburg, afterwards 
Duke of York. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 159 

Altho' a ribbon at your lug, ear 

Wad been a dress completer : 
As ye disown yon paughty dog proud 

That bears the keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! and get a wife to hug, get away 

Or, trouth ! ye'll stain the mitre by my troth 

Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks,* I learn 

Ye've lately come athwart her ; 
A glorious galley,f stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter ; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter, 
Then heave aboard your grapple aim, iron 

An', large upon her quarter, 
Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a', 

Ye royal lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak' ye guid as weel as braw, 

An' gi'e you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa', 

For kings are unco scant aye : 
An' German gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want aye 
On ony day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now, 

Ye're unco muckle dautet ; ^ e ™J h 

But ere the course o' life be thro', 

It may be bitter sautet : salted 

An' I ha'e seen their coggie fou, bowl rail 

That yet ha'e tarrow't at it ; murmured 

But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggent they ha'e clautet scraped 

Fu' clean that day. 

* William Henry, third son of George III., afterwards Duke of Garence and 
King William IV. 
t Alluding to the newspaper account of a certain royal sailor's amour.— B. 
% The angle between the side and bottom of a wooden dish. 



160 



BURNS 8 POEMS. 



TO JOHN LAPRAIK, 

AN OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 

(First Epistle,) 

[" The • Epistle to John Lapraik' was produced exactly on the occasion de- 
scribed by the author—' On Fasten e'en we had a.rocking.' Rocking is a term de- 
rived from those primitive times, when the country-women employed their 
spare hours in spinning on a rock, or distaff. This simple implement is a very 
portable one, and well fitted to the social inclination of meeting in a neighbour's 
house ; hence the phrase of going a rocking, or with the rock. As the connection 
the phrase had with the implement was forgotten when the rock gave place to 
the spinning wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes on social occa- 
sions, and men talk of going with their rocks as well as women." — G.B. " The 
song in question, was the work of a very worthy facetious old fellow, John 
Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muirkirk ; which little property he was obliged 
to sell in consequence of some connection as security for some persons con- 
cerned in that villanous bubble, the Ayr Bank. He has often told me that he 
composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting over their misfor- 
tune."— The song begins thus :— 

When I upon thy bosom lean. 

And fondly ca' thee a' my ain, 
I glory in the sacred ties, 

That made us ane wha ance were twain. 
A mutual flame inspires us baith. 

The tender look, the melting hiss ; 
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, 

But only gi'e us change o* bliss,] 

April 1, 1785. 






While briers and woodbines budding green, 
And paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, 
And morning poussie whiddin' seen, 

Inspire my muse, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 

On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin', 

To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 

And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 



partridges 
screaming 

hare 
scudding 



Shrovetide, 
meeting 
chat 
much 



There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 



one 
above 



thrilled 



I've scarce heard ought described sae weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel ; 




'Tve seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return, 

And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn." 



Man was Made to Mourn, p. 15« 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



161 



Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele. 

Or Beattie's wark ?" 
They tauld me 'twas an auld kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 



told, fellow 



It pat me fidgin'-fain to hearty very desirous 

And sae about him there I spier't, inquired 

When a' that ken't him round declar'd 

He hadingine, genius 

That nane excell'd it, few cam' near't, 

It was sae fine. 



That, set him to a pint of ale, 

And either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes and sangs he'd mak' himself 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 



grave 



Then up I <*at, and swoor an aith, 

Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and graith, 

Or die a cadger pownie's death 

At some dyke back, 
A pint and gill Pd gi'e them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first and foremost, I should tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell ; 

Tho' rude and rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel', 

Does weel eneusrh. 



oath 

harness 

pedlar pony's 

wall 

both 

chat 



almost 

doggerel 

verse 



humming 



I am nae poet in a sense, 

But just a rhymer, like by chance, 

And ha'e to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter ! 
Whene'er my muse does on me glance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say, u How can you e'er propose, 
You, wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 
To mak' a sang?" 



162 



BUHNS'S POEMS. 



But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
Ye 're maybe wrang. 

What's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns and stools ; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars ! 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or nappin' -hammers. 

A set o' dull conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 

Plain truth to speak ; 
And syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek. 

Gi'e me ae spark o' nature's fire ! 

That's a' the learnin' I desire ; 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub and mire 

At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' tamely in attire, 

May touch the heart 

Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Ferguson's, the bauld and slee, 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it! 
That would be lear eneugh for me, 

If I could get it ! 

]S T ow, sir, if ye ha'e friends enow, 
Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mysel' ; 

As ill I like my fauts to tell ; 

But friends and folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me; 
Tho' I maun own, as mony still 

As far abuse me. 



serves 
taken, 
shovels 



fools 



young bul- 
locks 






then 



pool 



spark 
bold, slv 



learning 



full 



will not boast 
faults 



praise 
must 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



163 



But Mauchline race,* or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet you there : 
We'se gi'e ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
And ha'e a swap o' rhyniin'-ware 

Wi ! ane anither. 



meet 
exchange 
one another 



The four- gill chap, we'se gar him clatter, 
And kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne weel sit down and tak' our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
And, faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 



make 
christen 
then, 
draught 



Awa', ye selfish war'ly race, 

Wha think that havins, sense, and grace, 

Ev'n love and friendship, should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 



worldly 
manners 

(small coin) 
do not 
conversation 



But ye whom social pleasure charms, 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

"Each aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 



But to conclude my lang epistle, 

As my auld pen's worn to the grissle ; 

Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am, most fervent, 
While I can either sing or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



stump 
would make, 

hustle 



• Celebrated on the road adjoining Burns's farm of Mossgiel 



m 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 

(Second Epistle.) 

April 21, 1785. 
While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, driven cows 

And pownies reek in pleugh or braik, ponies, 

This hour on e'ening's edge I take, harrow 

To own I'm debtor, 
To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 
For his kind letter. 



Forjesket sair, wi weary legs, 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hour's bite, 
My awkward muse sair pleads and begs 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezi'd hizzie, 

She's saft at best, and something lazy, 

Quo' she, li Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 

This month and mair, 
That trouth, my head is grown right dizzy, 

And something sair." 



jaded sore 

nags 

sore 



heedless 
fatigued 
hussy 



more 
indeed 



Her dowff excuses pat me mad : 

" Conscience," says I, u ye thowless jadj 

I'll write, and that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 
But rhyme it right. 



stupid 
thewless 
large 
quantity 

do not 



" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose ye sae weel for your deserts, 

In terms sae friendly, 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 

And thank him kindly?" 



cards 
praise 



Sae I gat paper in a blink, 

And down gaed stumpie in the ink : 



went the pen 



BUBXS'S POEMS. 



165 



Quotli I, a Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
And if ye winna mak' it clink, will not 

By Jove I'll prose it !" 

Fae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 

In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, both together 

Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, medley 

Let time mak' proof; 

But I shall scribble down some blether nonsense 

Just clean aff-loof. off-hand 



My worthy friend, ne'er grudge and carp, 
Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp ; 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ; 
Ne' er mind how fortune waft and warp — 

She's but a b-tck ! 



tickle 



She's gi'en me mony a jirt and neg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig ; 
But, by the L — d, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 

Xow comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 

Behint a kist to lie an' sklent, 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent, 

An' muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie's name ? 



Jerk, kick 
gray head 



summer 
timber 



chest, 
deceive 

big belly 
burgh 



Or is't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himsel' nae sheep-shank bane, 
But lordly stalks, 



haughty 
shirt 



166 BURNS'S POEMS. 

While caps an' bonnets aff are ta'eiL; 
As by he walks ? 

Oh Thou wha gi'es us each guid gift ! 
Gi'e me o' wit an' sense a lift, 
Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide ; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, would not 

In a' their pride ! 

Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain' o' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to heav'n, that's no the gate wa ? 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

And none but he ! " 

Oh mandate glorious an' divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light, 
While sordid sons o' Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an 5 squeeze, an' growl, 

Their worthless niefu' of a soul handful 

May in some future carcase howl. 

The forest's fright ; 
Or in some day- detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native kindred skies, 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



167 



TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 

{Third Epistle.) 
[This epistle was first published by Lapraik, in his own volume.! 

September 13, 1785. 

prosperity 



Guid speed and furder to you, Johnnie, 
Guid health, hale han's, and weather bonnie ; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' bran'y jug 

To clear your head. 



May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 
Sendin' the stuff o'er muirs and hags 

Like drivin' wrack ; 
But may the tapmast grain that wags 

Come to the sack. 



cutting, care- 
fully 



ricks 
morasses 
sea weed 
topmost 



I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers ha'e wat it, 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' muckle wark, 
And took my jocteleg and whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 

It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 

On holy men, 
While de'il a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 

But let the kirk- folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's ; 
We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us, 
But browster wives and whisky stills, 

They are the muses. 

Your friendship, sir, I winna quat it, 
And if ye mak' objections at it, 



busy, active 
beating, wet 

much trouble 
knife 
mended 



praise 
brewer 



quit 



168 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Then han' in nleve some day we'll knoi it, fist 

And witness take, 

And when wi' usquebae we've wat it, whisky 

It winna break. win not 



But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kye be gaun without the herd, 
And a' the vittal in the yard, 

And theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 



curb 

cows, going 

victuals 

thatched 

fireside 

one 



Then muse-inspirhV aqua vitas 

Shall mak' us baith sae blythe and witty, 

Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty, 

And be sae canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane and twenty ! 

But stooks are cowpet wi' the blast, 
And now the sinn keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

And quat my chanter ; 
Sae I subscribe myself in haste 

Your's, Rab the Ranter* 



both 
gouty 
cheerful 
thirty 



shocks, over 
turned 
sun peeps 
run 
quit, pipe 



TO WILLIAM S[IMPSON], 

OCHILTREE. 

[ Simpson was the schoolmaster of Ochiltree, afterwards of New Cumnock- 
He was a writer of verses of average merit. "We owe his verse some respect, if 
only for having been the occasion of the following epistle.] 



May, 1785. 



I gat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly, 

And unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin' billie, 

Your flatterin' strain. 



comely 
heartily 
must, would 
very 
fellow 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



169 



But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie ; 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it 

I scarce excuse ye. 



should, loath 
sidelong 
slanted 

flattering 



My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield, 

The braes o' fame ; 
Or Ferguson, the writer chiel, 

A deathless name. 



basket 
climb 

hills 
youth 



(Oh Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts, 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ; 
The tythe o' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 



cards 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 
Or lasses gi'e my heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(Oh sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed ; 

It gi'es me ease. 



tickle 



Auld Coila,* now, may fidge fa' fain, 

She's gotten poets o' her ain, 

Chiels, wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise, 

Nae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'd-of-isle 

Beside New Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 



be verv 

joyous 
youths, 
pipes, spare 



south ward of 



• Kyle, the Bard's native province. 



170 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



Ramsay and famous Ferguson 
Gi'ed Forth and Tay a lift aboon ; 
Yarrow and Tweed, to mony a tune, 

Owre Scotland sings, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, and Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Ulissus, Tiber, Thames, and Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ; 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

And cock your crest, 
We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wi' the best ! 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains and fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks and braes, her dens and dells, 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tell, 

Frae southron billies. 



upwards 



foot 



make 



hills 



bore the bell 
fellows 



At Wallace' name what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood? 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat shod, 

Or glorious died ! 

Oh sweet are Coila's haughs and woods, 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin' hares, in amorous whids, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods, 

With wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree ; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray : 
Or blinding drifts wild furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

Oh nature ! a' thy shows and forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts ha'e charms ! 



walking in 
blood 



meadows 
linnets 
frisking, 
gambols 

dove coos 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



171 



Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life and light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night. 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander, 

And no think lang ; 
Oh sweet to stray and pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch and strive ; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive, 

And I wi' pleasure 
Shall let the busy grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 



found 



worldly 
jostle, push 
describe 



buzz over 



Fareweel, tc my rhyme-composing brither !" 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 

In love fraternal ! 
May envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend infernal ! 



together 



be hanged in 
a halter 



While Highlandmen hate tolls and taxes, 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies ; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 

In Robert Burns. 



dead sheep 



POSTSCRIPT. 

My memory's no worth a preen ; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ye bade me write you what they mean, 

By this New Light, 
'Bout which our herds sae aft ha'e been 

Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, and sic talents, 



pin 

almost, quite 



almost 



boys 
such 



172 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak' their thoughts in plain braid lallans, 

Like you or me. 

In thae auld times, they thought the moon, 
Just like a sark or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon 

Gaed past their viewing, 
And shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 

This past for certain — undisputed ; 

It ne'er cam' i' their heads to doubt it, 

Till chiels gat up and wad confute it, 

And ca'd it wrang ; 
And muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lano;. 



broad low- 
land speech 



these 

shirt, shoes 
paring 
went 



fellows, 
would 



Some herds, well learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk ; 
For 'twas the auld moon turned a neuk, 

And out o' sight, 
And backlins-comin' to the leuk 

She grew mair bright. 

This was denied — it was affirmed ; 

The herds and hirsels were alarmed : 

The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd and storm 'd 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 



assert 
corner 



backward 



flocks 



fathers 



Frae less to mair it ga'ed to sticks ; 
Frae words and aiths to clours and nicks, 
And mony a. fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt ; 
And some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were han^'d and brunt. 



from, more, 

went 
oaths, dints 

stroke 



This game was play'd in mony lands, 
And Auld Light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 
Wi' nimble shanks, 



porters, bore 

SUQh 



BURNS'S POEMS. 173 

Till lairds forbade, by strict commands, 

Sic bluidy pranks. such bloody 

But New Light herds gat sic a cowe, fright 

Folk thought them ruin'd stick-and-stowe, totally 

Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe Unlock 

Ye'll find ane plac'd ; 
And some their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks are bleatm' ; 

Their zealous herds are vex'd and sweatin' ; 

Mysel' I've even seen them greethV weeping 

Wi' girnin' spite, grinning 

To hear the moon sae sadly lied on 

By word and write. 

But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some Auld Light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak' a flight, 
And stay ae month amang the moons one 

And see them right. 

Guid observation they will gi'e them ; 

And when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them, going 

The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them, fragment 

Just i' their pouch, 
And when the New Light billies see them, fellows 

I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter ;" 

But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

• In logic tulzie, contention 

I hope we bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. such broil 



174 BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE OEDINATIOlSr, 

For sense they little owe to frugal Heav*n— 
To please the mob they hide the little giv*n, 

[This satire was written on the admission of the Rev. Mr. Mackinlay as one 
of the ministers of the Laigh or Parochial Kirk of Kilmarnock, which took 
place on the 6th of April, 1786. As Mr. Mackinlay professed " Auld Light" views, 
and succeeded one of the "New Lights," the occasion was a triumph to the 
orthodox party. " New Light" is a cant term in the west of Scotland for those 
religious opinions advocated so strenuously by Dr. Taylor of Norwich. Mr. 
Mackinlay lived down the satirical personalities, and positively came, in course 
of time, to appreciate them for their power.] , 

Kilmarnock wabsters, fidge and claw, weavers 

And pour your creeshie nations ; greasy 

And ye wha leather rax and draw, stretch 

Of a 1 denominations,* 
Swith to the Laigh Kirk ane and a', g° awj tf 

And there tak' up your stations ; 
Then aff to Begbie'sf in a raw, 

And pour divine libations 
For joy this day. 

Curst Common Sense, that imp o* hell, 

Cam' in wi' Maggie Lauder ;{ 
But Oliphant aft made her yeli, 

And Russell sair niisca'd her ; sorely 

This day M tak's the flail, 

And he's the boy will blaud her ! slap 

He'll clap a shangan on her tail, cleft stick 

And set the bairns to daud her bespatter 

Wi' dirt this day. 

Mak' haste an' turn king David owre, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; sing 

O double verse come gi'e us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : scream 

This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, dust 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her, no more 

* Most of the inhabitants were then engaged in the manufacture of carpets 
and other coarse woollen goods, or in the preparation of leather. 

f A tavern near the church. 

t Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on the admission of the late 
reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigh Kirk. " Common Sense" refers 
to his Arminian doctrine. The scoffing ballad had been composed in reference 
to his appointment— which was supposed to have been made through the influ- 
ence of his wife, Margaret Lauder, who had been housekeeper to the Earl of 
Glencairn, patron of the kirk. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



175 



For Heresy is in her pow'r, 
An' gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 



whip 



Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aff wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham leugh at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 

Wi 1 wh-re-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, the scauldin' jad, 

Was like a bluidy tiger 

I' th' inn that day. 



laughed, 
father 



scolding 
bloody 



There, try h?s mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed 

He tak's but for the fashion ; 
An' gi'e him owre the flock, to feed, 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Gi'e them sufficient threshin', 
Spare them nae day. 

Now, auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An' toss thy horns fu' canty ; 
Nae mair thou'lt rowte out- owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts o' grace the pick an' wale, 

No gi'en by way o' dainty, 
But ilka day. 



thrashing 



merry 
bellow 



broth 

cabbage- 
stems, 
choice 

every 



Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a-dryin' : 
Come, screw the pegs, wi' tunefu' cheep, 

An' o'er the thairms be tryin' : 
Oh, rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 

An' a' like lamb -tails flyin' 
Fu' fast this day ! 



hang 
clothes 



strings 
elbows fly 
nimbly 



176 



BURNS'S POEMS* 



Lang patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin', 
As lately Fen wick, sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin : 
Our patron, honest man ! Glencairn, 

He saw mischief was brewin' ; 
An' like a godly, elect bairn 

He's wal'd us out a true ane, 
An' sound this day. 



iron 

threatened 
sore worn 
out 



child 
chosen 



Now, Robertson,* harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever ; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear, 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Nether ton f repair, 

An' turn a carpet-weaver 
AfF-hand this day. 



close, mouth 



learning 
barber 



Mutrie J an' you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catched the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudrons : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

AYi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 
Fast, fast this day. 



cauldrons 
must 



See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes foes 

She's swingein' through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow its unco pretty. very 

There, Learning, with his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty, 
And Common Sense is gaun, she says, going 

To mak' to Jamie Beattie § 

Her plaint this day. 

* The colleague of the newly ordained clergyman— a moderate, 
t A part of the town of Kilmarnock. 

% The deceased clergyman, whom Mr. Mackinlay succeeded. 
§ The author of the Essay on Truth, (?) 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



177 



But there's Morality himsel', 

Embracing all opinions; 
Hear, how he gi'es the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions ; 
See, how she peels the skin and fell, 

As ane were peelin' onions ! 
Now there — they're packed affto hell, 

And banish' d our dominions, 
Henceforth this day. 

Oh, happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair find quarter ; 
M , Russell, are the boys, 

That Heresy can torture : 
They'll gi'e her on a rape a hoyse, 

And cowe her measure shorter 
By th' head some day. 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in, 

And here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light mother's son, 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, and every skin 

We'll rin them aff in fusion, 
Like oil some day. 



gives, other 



rope, hoist 



other 



more, deafen 

match 
run 



TO JAMES SMITH. 

Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul I 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society ! 
I owe thee much I— Blair. 

t" James Smith was a shopkeeper in Mauchline during the poet's sojourn 
there. Not succeeding, he established a calico-printing manufactory at Avon, 
near Linlithgow. He failed in his speculations, and sailed for the West Indies, 
where he did not live long. He was a person of ready wit, lively manners, and 
much respected by the poet."— A. (7.1 

Dear Smith, the slee'est, paukie thief, S ] y cunning 

That e'er attempted stealth or rief, robbery 

Ye surely ha'e some warlock-breef spell 

Owre human hearts ; over 



178 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 
Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun and moon, 
And ev'ry star that blinks aboon, 
Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 

Just gaun to see you ; 
And ev'ry ither pair that's doon, 

Mair ta'en I'm m' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak' amends for scrimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 

On her first plan ; 
And in her freaks, on every feature 

She's wrote, the Man. 

Just now I've ta'en the fit o' rhyme, 
My barmie noddle's working prime, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

Wi' hasty summon : 
Ha'e ye a leisure moment's time, 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme a neighbour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash : 
Some rhyme to court the country clash, 

And raise a din ; 
For me, an aim I never fash — 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckless lot, 

Has fated me the russet coat, 

And damn'd my fortune to the groat; . 

But in requit, 
Has blest me wi' a random shot 

0' countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent ; 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries " Hoolie ! 
I red you, honest man, tak' tent ! 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 



proof 



above 
shoes 
going 

other 
more 



old, woman 
stinted 



yeasty 
fermented 



trouble 



bent 
print 

gently 
warn, care 
show 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



179 



" There's ither poets much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters, 
Ha'e thought they had insur'd their debtors 

A' future ages ; 
Now moths deform, in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages." 

Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'D. rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling thrang, 
And teach the lanely heights and howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on, with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed, 
Till fate shall snap the brittle thread ; 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone ! 

But why o' death begin a tale ! 

Just now we're living, sound and hale, 

Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care owre side ! 
And large before enjoyment's gale 

Let's tak' the tide. 



busy 
hollows 



careless 



This life, sae far's I understand, 

Is a' enchanted fairy land, 

Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Mak's hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 

The magic wand then let us wield ; 
For, ance that five and forty's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face, 
Comes hostin', hirplin' owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 



once, 
climbed 



coughing 
limping 



When ance life's day draws near the gloamhV, twilight 
Then fareweel vacant careless roainin' ; 



<^» 



180 BURNS'S POEMS. 

And fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamm' 

And social noise ; 
And fareweel dear deluding woman ! 

The joy of joys ! 

Oh life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning, 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier, 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves ! 
And tho' the puny wound appear, 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot, 
For which they never toil'd or swat ; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; without 

And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

"With steady aim some fortune chase ; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace ; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey : 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, quietly, snug 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights ! nae rules nor roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on; 
Till curst with age, obscure and starving 

They aften groan. often 

Alas ! what bitter toil and straining — 
But truce with peevish, poor complaining ! 
Is fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her crang ! go 



burns's poe:>:s. 181 

Beneath what light she has remaining, 
Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door, 

An' kneel, " Ye Pow'rs," an' warm implore, 

" Tho' I should wander terra o'er 

In all her climes, 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. abundance 

" Gi'e dreeping roasts to countra lairds, dripping 

Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 

Gi'e fine braw claes to fine life guards, clothes 

An' maids of honour ! 

An' yill an' whisky gi'e to cairds, ale, tinkers 

Until they scunner. areBanseated 

" A title, Dempster merits it ; 

A garter gi'e to Willie Pitt ; 

Gi'e wealth to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. : 
But give me real, sterling wit, 

An' I'm content. 

" While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 

I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 

Be't water-brose, or muslin-kail, broth 

W T i' cheerfu' face, 
As lang's the muses dinna fail do not 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws eye 

Behint my lug or by my nose ; ear 

I jouk beneath misfortune's blows shy away 

As weel's I may ; 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

I rhyme away. 

Oh ye douce folk, that live by rule, sober 

Grave, tideless-blooded, calm an' cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — oh fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ; 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives a dyke ! wall 



182 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Nae hair-brain'd, sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise ; 

Nae ferly tho' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, ram-stam boys, 

The rattling squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 

— Ye ken the road. 



wonder 
hair-brained 
forward 



Whilst I — but I shall haud me there— 
Wi' you I'll scarce' gang ony where- 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content wi' you to mak' a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



hold 
go 

quit 
go 



THE TWA HERDS, OR THE HOLY TULZIE. 

[The Rev. Alexander Moodie and the Rev. John Russell, both of the " Anld 
Light" party, were the heroes of this "Holy Quarrel." Burns at first circu- 
lated the poem anonymously, when " it met with roars of applause."] 



Oh a' ye pious, godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pastures orthodox, 
Wha now will keep ye frae the fox, 

Or worrying tykes, 
Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 

About the dykes ! 

The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel horn a blast, 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

Oh! dooltotell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themsel'. 



well 
from 

dogs 
heed, old 
ewes 
stone fences 



grief 

quarrel 

between 



Oh, Moodie, man, and wordy Russell, 
How could ye raise sae vile a bustle, 



worthy 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



183 



Yell see how New Light herds will whistle, 

And think it fine : 
The L — 's cause ne'er got sic a twistle 

Sin' I ha'e min\ 



O, sirs ! whae'er wad ha'e expeckit 

Your duty ye wad sae negleckit, 

Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 

To wear the plaid, 
But by the brutes themselves eleckit, 

To be their guide. 



expected 
would so 



elected 



What flock wi' Moodie's flock could rank, 
Sae hale and hearty ev'ry shank ! 
JNae poison'd, sour Arminian stank, - 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they drank — 

Oh sic a feast ! 



pool 



such 



The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice through a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid 

And sell their skin. 



polecat, 
badger, fox 

every 

both 

blood 



What herd like Russell * tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord's sheep, ilka tail, 

O'er a' the height, 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 



every 
If 



He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 

Or nobly fling the gospel club, 

And New Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin ; 
Could shake them owre the burning dub, 

Or heave them in. 



pool 



* Russell is described as a " large, robust, dark-complexioned man, impertur- 
bably grave, fierce of temper, and of a stern expression of countenance." He 
preached with so much vehemence, that it is said his voice could be heard a 
mile oft 



BURNS's POEMS. 

Sic twa — Oli ! do I live to see't, 
Sic famous twa should disagreet, 
And names like villain, hypocrite, 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While New Light herds, wi' laughing spite, 

Say neither's liein' ! 

A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 

There's Duncan,* deep, and Peebles, shaul,f 

But chiefly thou, apostle Auld,$ 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, het and cauld, 

Till they agree. 

Consider, Sirs, how we're beset ; 
There's scarce a new herd that we get 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name ; 
I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalrymple§ has been lang our fae, 
M' Gill || has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae,^" 

And baith the Shaws, ** 
That aft ha'e made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow ft lang has hatch' d mischief, 
"We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
Bat he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chiel whall soundly buff our beef; 

I meikle dread him. 

And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain wad openly rebel, 



such two 

eacli other 

lying 

tend, fold 
shallow 

hot, cold 



will not 
from 



foe 
much woe 

both 
oft, hiue 



one 

fellow, thrash 

greatly 



* Dr. Robert Duncan, minister of Dundonald. 
t Rev. William Peebles, of Newton-upon-Ayr. 
X Rev. Wihiam Auld, minister of Mauchline. 
§ Rev. Dr. Dalrymple, one of the ministers of Ayr. ' 

U Rev. William M'Gill, one of the ministers of Ayr, colleague of Dr. Daa- 
\ rymple. 

^i' Minister of St. Quivox, a man of liberal views. 

** Dr. Andrew Shaw of Craigie, and Dr. David Shaw of Coylton. 

If Dr. Peter Wodrow, of Tarbolton. 



JJURNS'S POEMS. 185 

Forbye turncoats amang oursel', besides 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a gray-nick quill, unmasculine 

And that ye'll fin'. 

Oh ! a' ye flocks o'er a' the hills, 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, hills 

Come, join your counsel and your skills 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the powers themscl's 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 

An' Learning in a woodie dance, halter 

An' that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair, so sorely 

Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and Dalrymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close, nervous excellence, 
Quhae's pathetic manly sense, 

An' guid M'Math, g00d 

Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance,* 

May a' pack aff. off 



HOLY WILLIE'S PKAYER. 

[The hero of this daring exposition of Calvinistic theology was William 
Fisher, a farmer in the neighbourhood of Mauchline, and an elder in Mr. Auld's 
session. He had signalized himself in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, else- 
where alluded to; and Burns appears to have written these verses in retribution 
of the rancour he had displayed on that occasion.— Ch. Fisher was afterwards 
convicted of appropriating the money collected for the poor. Coming home one 
night from market in a state of intoxication he fell into a ditch, where he was 
found dead next morning. The poem was first published in 1801, along with 
the. " Jolly Beggars."] 

Oh Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 

Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 

Sends ane to heaven, an' ten to hell, one 

A' for thy glory, 
An' no for ony guid or ill good 

They've done afore thee ! before 

* The Rev. Mr. Smith of Galston. 



186 BURNS'S POEMS. 

I bless an' praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation, 
That I should get sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. . 

When frae my mither's womb I fell, 
Thou might ha'e plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep an' wail, 

In burnin' lake, 
Whare damned devils roar an' yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 



when 



rach 



from, 
mother's 



Yet I am here, a chosen sample ; 

To show thy grace is great an' ample ; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example, 

To a' thy flock. 

But yet, oh L — ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust ; 
An' sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

Maybe thou lets this fleshly thorn, 

Beset thy servant e'en an' morn, 

Lest he owre high an' proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted ; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 



troubled 



L — , bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



187 



But G — confound their stubborn face, 
And blast their name, 

Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 
And public shame. 

L — , mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, 

He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, 

Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grit and sma', 
Frae G — 's ain priests the people's hearts 

He steals awa'. 



cards 
so many- 
great, small 
from, own 



And whan we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 
As set the warld in a roar 

O laughin' at us , — 
Curse thou his basket and his store. 

Kail and potatoes. 



such, row 



broth 



L — , hear my earnest cry and pray'r, 

Against the Presbyt'ry of Ayr ; 

Thy strong right hand, L — , mak' it bare 

Upo' their heads, 
L — , weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 



do not 



Oh L — my G — , that glib-tongu'd Aiken, smooth 

My very heart and saul are quakin', soul 
To think how we stood groaning shakin', 

And swat wi' dread, sweated 

While he wi' hingin' lips and snakin', hanging 

Held up his head. 



L — , in the day of vengeance try him, 
L — , visit them wha did employ him, 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r ; 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 

But, L — , remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 



do not 



1SS 



BURNS 3 POEMS. 



That I for gear and grace may shine, 
ExcelPd by nanc, 

And a' the glory shall be thine, 
Amen, amen ! 



wealth 
nono 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 

Here Holy Willie's sair-wcrn clay 

Tak's up its last abode ; 
His saul has ta'en some ither way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 



soul 



Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 
Poor, silly body, see him ; 

Eae wonder he's as black's the grun', 
Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see, 
Has got him there before ye ; 

But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore, 
For pity ye ha'e nane ; 
ustice, alas ! has gi'en him o'er, 



r or pny ye na e nar 

Justice, alas ! has gi'e: 

And mercy's day is 



gane. 



But hear me, sir, de'il as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 



ground 



brimstone 

hold, awhile 
once 



have none 
gone 

devil 

fool, would 
known 



FIRST EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET. 

[Davie was Mr. David Sillar, originally of Tarbolton parish, but afterwards a 
teacher in the burgh of Irving.] 

January, 1784. 
While winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, from off 

An' bar the doors wi' driving snaw, h 

An' hing us owre the ingle, fire ' ' 



Btir.xs's POEMS. 



189 



I set me down to pass the time, 
An' spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In namely westlin jingle. 
While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bien an' snug : 
I tent less, an' want less 
Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker an' canker 
To see their cursed pride. 



western 

in, chimney 
nook 
little 

comfortably 
heed 



It's hardly in a body's power 

To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shar'd ; 
How best o' chiels are whiles in want, 
While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An' ken na how to wair't ; 
But Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we ha'e little gear, 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lang's we're hale an' fier. 
11 Mair spier na, nor fear na,"* 

Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't, the warst o't, 
Is only but to beg. 



from 

fellows, 

sometimes 
fools 

not, spend 
trouble 
wealth 

sound 
more, ask 
not 
old, fig 

worst 



To lie in kilns an' barns at e'en, 

When banes are craz'd, an' bluid is thin, 

Is, doubtless, great distress ! 
Yet then content could mak' us blest : 
Ev'n then, sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba', 
Has aye some cause to smile : 
An' mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sma' : 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Xae farther we can fa'. 



bones, blood 



from 



ball 



not small 
no more 
fall 



* Eamsay. 



190 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



What though, like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But either house or hall ? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills an' woods, 
The sweeping vales, an' foaming floods, 

Are free alike to all. 
In days when daisies deck the ground, 

An' blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound 
To see the coming year ; 

On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit an' sowth a tune ; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
An' sing't when we ha'e dune. 

It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in makin' muckle mair ; 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear, 

To mak' us truly blest ; 
If happiness ha'e not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 
!N ae treasures nor pleasures 

Could mak' us happy lang ; 
The heart aye's the part aye 
That makes us right or wrang. 



without 



hillocks 
try 

then, to it 
have done 



mnch, more 
learning 



Think ye, that sic as you and I, such 

Wha drudge and drive through wet and dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, beed 

As hardly worth their while ? 
Alas ! how aft, in haughty mood, 

God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guidj good 

They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless and fearless both 

Of either heaven or hell ! 
Esteeming and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 191 

Then let us cheerful' acquiesce ; 
Nor mak' our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, ha'e met wi' some, 

Ail's thankful' for them yet. and is 

They gi'e the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They mak' us see the naked truth, 

The real guid and ill. e ood 

Though losses and crosses 
Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! attend to 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, would, cards 

And flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy: 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart, 

The lover and the frien' ; 
Ye ha'e your Meg, your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me, 

To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beets me, adds fuel to 

And sets me a' on flame I 

Oh, all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
Oh Thou, whose very self art love ! 
Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou, Being, all-seeing, 

Oh hear my fervent pray'r ! 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care! 



192 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you ! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 



dark 



Oh, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin', rank an' file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine 
As Phoebus an' the famous Nine 
Were glow'rin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp ? 

Till ance he's fairly het ; 
An' then he'll hilch, an' stilt, an' jimp, 
An' rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then 
Should rue this hasty ride, 
I'll light now, an' dight now, 
His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 



hastening 

almost 

runs 

staring over 
spavm'd 
once, warm 

hobble 
at a good 
pace 



wipe 
withered 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

a brother poet. 
Auld Neibor, 
I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, frien'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair, 
For my puir, silly, rhymin' clatter 
Some less maun sair. 



sensible 
must 



poor 
must serve 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



193 



Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle ; 
Lang may your elbock jink an' diddle, 
To cheer you thro' the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld, gray hairs. 

But, Davie lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the muse ye ha'e negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faiket, 

Be hain't wha like. 



elbow 

bustle 

worldly 

grand- 
children, 
caress 

informed, 

inattentive 
told 

if, so, should 
shrug- 
hands 
wanted 
spared 



For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 

Bivin' the words to gar them clink ; make 

Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't wi' drink, ^j*^ 

Wi' jads Or masons ; (freemasons) 

An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think too 

Braw sober lessons. fin ® 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen' me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin' clink, 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' livin' 
Nae cares to gi'e us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An' while ought's there, 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 



poetic 



devil a whit, 
should 



pouch, fist 

gleesomely 
trouble, more 



Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark, or leisure, 

My Muse, poor hizzie ! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie : 
The warP may play you mony a shavie ; 



my blessing 

almost 

a-field 

lass 

coarse 



keep 
prank 



194 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



But for the^luse, she'll never leave ye, 
Tho' e'er sae puir, 

Na, even the-' limpin' wi' the spavie 
Frae door to door. 



poor 
spavin 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 

An honest man's the noblest work of God.— Pofe. 

[Tarn Samson was a jolly west country seedsman, who was fond of a good 
shot— so fond, indeed, that he joked about being buried in the moors when he 
died. Burns hearing of this, wrote the elegy. On reading it to Samson, that 
person thought it too bad to carry the joke" so far, when Burns immediately 
added the per contra, thereby turning his friend's chagrin into delight At Ida 
death, the epitaph was cut on his tombstone.] 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the de'il ? 
Or great M'Kinlav thrawn his heel ? 
Or Robertson again grown weel, 

To preach and read ? 
11 Xa, waur than a' !" cries ilka chiel — 

Tarn Samson's deid. 



devil 

twisted 

well 



worse, every 
one 



dead 



Kilmarnock lang may grunt and grane, 
And sigh, and sab, and greet her lane, 
And deed her bairns, man, wife and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane — 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



groan 
weep, alone 
clothe, chil- 
dren, child 

tribute 



The brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ; 
Death's gi'en the lodge an unco devel— 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



(free masons) 
hang, posture 



awful blow 



When Winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire up like a rock ; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock ? — 

Tarn Samson's deid I 



mark 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



195 



He was the king o' a 1 the core, 

To guard, or draw, or wick a bore ; * 

Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need ; 
But now he lags on death's hog- score f — 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



company 



Now safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trouts be-dropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels weel kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we wail- 
Tarn Samson deid ! 

Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' ; 

Ye cootie moorcocks, crousely craw ; 

Ye maukins, cock your fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread ; 
Your mortal fae is now awa' — 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



salmon 
spotted 
well, supple 
pikes 
basket 

whirring 
partridges 

feathery- 
legged, 
bravely 

hares, tails, 
bravely 

foe 



That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd, 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd !« 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



dress 



from 
went 



In vain auld age his body batters ; 

In vain the gout his ankles fetters ; 

In vain the burns cam' down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now ev'ry auld wife, greetin', clatters, 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



broad 



Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
And aye the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide ; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpit, 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



over, moss 
ditch 
other 
jumped 
enmity 
blast 



* To guard stones at the mark, to go straight to the mark, or to go between 
flanking stones. 

t This is a score or line crossing the course. Stonea not passing ttUi ! line are 
removed. 



196 



BURNS S POEMS. 



When at his heart he felfc the dagger, 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed ; 
U L — d, five!" he cried, and owre did stagger- 
Tarn Samson's deid ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither ; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father ; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 

There low he lies, in lasting rest ; 
Perhaps upon his mouldering breast 
Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hatch and breed ; 
Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! — 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 

When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther and lead, 
Till echo answer frae her cave, 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 

Heav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me ; 
He had twa fauts, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tarn Samson's deid ! 



each, brother 

stono 

nonsense 



builds 



powder 
from 



soul 
more 
two faults 
remedy 
one 



EPITAPH. 

Tarn Samson's weel worn clay here lies, 
Ye canting zealots spare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets and neuks o' Klilie, 



well 



get 



(Kilmarnock) 



BtJRNS's POEMS. 

Tell ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin', 

For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 
Tarn Samson's leevin' ! 



197 



fellow 

unhurt, 

sharp knife 

living 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAY, 1786. 

[The "young friend" was Mr. Andrew Aitken, son of Mr. Robert Aitken 
writer in Ayr, to whom the "Cottar's Saturday Night" is inscribed. lie seems 
to have profited by part of the advice at least, as he lived and died a " prosperous 
gentleman."] 

I lang ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend, have 

A something to have sent you, 
Though it should serve nae ither end no 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subject-theme may gang, go 

Let time an' chance determine ; 
Perhaps it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye '11 try the world fu' soon, my lad, 

An', Andrew, dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, strange 

An' muckle they may grieve ye : much 

For care an' trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained ; ' 
An' a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say men are villains a' ; ail 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha ha'e nae check but human law, who have 

Are to a few restricked ; restricted 

But, och ! mankind are unco weak, very 

An' little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, fall 

Their fate we should na censure, not 



198 BURXS'S POEMS. 

For still th' important end of life, 

They equally may answer ; 
A man may ha'e an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; poverty 

A man may tak' a neibor's part, 

Yet ha'e nae cash to spare him. 

Aye free, aff han' your story tell, off hand 

When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yoursel' 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. any 

Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek through ev'ry other man, look 

Wi' sharpen' d, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, fiame 

Luxuriantly indulge it ; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : nothing 

I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och ! it hardens a' within, 

An' petrifies the feeling ! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, . 

Assiduous wait upon her ; 
An' gather gear by ev'ry wile wealth 

That's justified by honour ; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Nor for a train-attendant, 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip 

To haud the wretch in order ; 
But where ye feel your honour grip, hold 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — 

Debar a' side pretences ; 
An' resolutely keep its laws, 

Uncaring consequences. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 199 

The great Creator to revere 

Must sure become the creature ; 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

An' ev'n the rigid feature : 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An Atheist laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended ! 

When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded ; 
Or if she gi'e a random sting, 

It may be little minded ; 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker, 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 

Adieu ! dear, amiable youth, 

Your heart can ne'er be wanting I 
May prudence, fortitude, an' truth 

Erect your brow undaunting ! 
In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," 

Still daily to grow wiser : 
An' may you better reck the rede heed, counsel 

Than ever did th' adviser ! 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq. 

[Mr. Hamilton was one of the first to befriend the rising poet. He was of an 
open and generous nature, though somewhat obnoxious to the church. He was 
arraigned before the Presbytery at the instance of the Rev. Mr. Auld, for having 
absented himself from church for three successive Sundays, and for having 
profanely said " damn it" in his presence. The charges were dismissed. The 
poem appeared in the Kilmarnock edition, but not as a prefatory dedication.] 

Expect na, sir, in this narration, 

A fleechin', fleth'rin' dedication, Mattering g 

To roose you up, and ca' you guid, praise 

And sprung o' great and noble bluid, * 

Because ye're surnam'd like his grace ; 

Perhaps related to the race ; 



200 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Then when I'm tir'd and sae are ye, 
Wi 1 mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, sir, wi' them wha 
Maun please the great folk for a wamefou ; 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 
For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig, 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg ; 
Sae I shall say, and that's nae natt'rin', 
It's just sic poet, and sic patron. 
The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear some ill ane skelp him, 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet, 
But only he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (sir, ye maun forgi'e me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me,) 
On ev'ry hand it will allow' d be, 
He's just — nae better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 

He downa see a poor man want ; 

What's no his ain he winna tak' it, 

What ance he says he winna break it ; 

Ought he can lend he'll no refus't, 

Till aft his guidness is abus'd ; 

And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 

Ev'n that he does na mind it lang : 

As master, landlord, husband, father, 

He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a' that ; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that ; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 

That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 



must 

bellyful 

low 

cannot 



such 
strike 



will not 



cannot 
own 



sometimes 
not 



BURXS'S rOEMS. 201 

It's no thro' terror of d-mn-tion ; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; (small coin) 

Abuse a brother to his back ; 

Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re, window 

But point the rake that tak's the door ; 

Be to the poor like ony whunstane, 

And haud their noses to the grunstane, hold, erind- 

Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving ; 

No matter — stick to sound believing ! 



stone 



Learn three-mile pray'rs, and half-mile graces, 

Wi' weel-spread looves, and lan£ wry faces ; loofa 

Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 

And damn a' parties but your own : 

I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 

A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

Oh ye wha leave the springs o' Calvin, 

For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin' ! "™ n y po ° s 

Ye sons of heresy and error, 

Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 

When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 

And in the fire throws the sheath ; 

When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 

Just frets till Heav'n commission gi'es him : 

While o'er the harp pale Mis'ry moans, 

And strikes the ever deep'ning tones, 

Still louder shrieks, and heavier groans ! 

Your pardon, Sir, for this digression, 

I maist forgat my dedication ; almost 

But when divinity comes cross mc, 

My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 



202 



BTJKNS'S POEMS. 



"When a' my works I did review, 

To dedicate them, Sir, to you: 

Because (ye need na tak' it ill) 

I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour, 

And your petitioner shall ever 

I had amaist said ever pray, 

But that's a word I need na say : 

For prayin' I ha'e little skill o't ; 

I'm baith dead sweer, and wretched ill o't ; 

But Pse repeat each poor man's pray'r, 

That kens or hears about you, Sir — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark, 
n owl thro' the dwelling o' the clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal name, 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen, 
Are by then canty fireside risen : 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows stout and able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the ev'ning o' his days, 
Till his wee curly John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow." 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 

With complimentary effusion : 

But whilst your wishes and endeavours 

Are blest with fortune's smiles and favours, 

I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 

Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which pow'rs above prevent) 

That iron-hearted carl, Want, 

Attended in his grim advances, 

By sad mistakes and black mischances, 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 



almost 



unwilling 



howling 



add fuel to 

dozen 

cheerful 



great grand- 
child 



old man 



BtfftNS's POEMS. 



203 



Your humble servant then no more ; 

For who would humbly serve the poor ! 

But, by a poor man's hopes in Heav'n I 

While recollection's power is giv'n, 

If, in the vale of humble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear, 

Should recognize my master dear, 

If friendless, low, we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand — my friend and brother. 



ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW HENDERSON, 

A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS 
IMMEDIATELY FROM ALMIGHTY GOD. 

Should the poor be flattered.— Shaksfeahe. 
But now his radiant course is run, 

For Matthew's course was bright ; 
His soul was like the glorious sun, 

A matchless heav'nly light ! 

(."The Elegy on Captain Henderson is a tribute to the memory of a man I 
loved much."— Burns. Captain Henderson was a retired soldier, of agreeable 
manners and upright character, who long adorned the best society of Edin- 
burgh. The poem was written in Dumfriesshire in 1790.] , 

Oh Death ! thou tyrant fell an' bloody ! 

The meikle devil wi' a woodle 

Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie, 

O'er hurcheon hides, 
An' like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld sides ! 

He's gane ! he's gane ! he's frae us torn, 

The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 

Thee, Matthew, Nature's seP shall mourn 

By wood an' wild, 
Where, haply, Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd ! 



great, 


halter 


drag, 


smithy 


hedgehog 


anvil 




old 




gone, 


from 


one 




self 





Ye hills ! near neibors o' the starns, stars 

That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 

Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, eagles 

Where echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, children 

My wailing numbers I 



204 BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 

Ye haz'lly shaws an' briery dens ! 

Ye burnies, winrplin' down your glens, 

Wi' toddlin' din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 

Frae tin to lin ! 



each, wocil- 

pigeon 
hollows, 

dingles 
meandering 

purling 
strong, leaps 

from, cascade 



Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie, 

In scented bow'rs ; 
Ye roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 

Droops with a diamond at its head, 

At ev'n, when beams their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins wmiddin thro' the glade, 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 

Ye whistling plover ; 
An' mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood !— 

He's gane for ever ! 

Monrn, sooty coots, an' speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck an' drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 



hares 

scudding 



crop 
cloud 

partridge 



Mourn, clam' ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mnng fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
An' when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore, 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay 

TV ham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r. 



land rails 



cold 

these 



owls 
dismal 



BURXS'S FOEMS. 



205 



What time the inoon, wi' silent glow'r 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

Oh, rivers, forests, hills, an' plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
An' frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear : 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 

For him that's dead. 



atare 



wakeful 



cheerful 



from, eyes 
must 



each, catch 
summer 



Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, whiter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of light i 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
An' you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 

Ne'er to return. 

Oh, Henderson ! the man — the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever ? 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 

The world around ? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye great, 
] n a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by the honest turf I'll wait, 
Thou man of worth J 



stars 



306 



BURNS'S POEMS, 



An' weep the ae best fellow's fate 
E're lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! — my story's brief, 
An' truth I shall relate, man ; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief — 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man, 

A look of pity hither cast — 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 

That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart — 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man, 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praise- 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man, 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa' — 

For Matthew was a kind man ! 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man, 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain — 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, an' fun, an' fire, 
An' ne'er guid wine did fear, man, 

This was thy billie, dam, an' sire — 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whiggin' sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man, 

May dool an' sorrow be his lot I 
For Matthew was a rare man. 



soldier 



who 7«ell 



call 

would 

fail 



good 
brother 



any, peevish 
grief 



207 



FIEST EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY. 

[Mr. Graham of Fintry was the statmchest and most substantial friend Burns 
ever had. He obtained for him the appointment in the excise, and procured his 
translation from a laborious district to one that demanded less exertion. This 
favour is the one alluded to in the Third and Fourth Epistles. " Fintry did all 
that was done to raise Burns out of the toiling humility of his condiiion, and 
enabled him to serve the muse without fear of want" When aspersions 
were thrown on Burns's loyalty, which might have seriously damaged him as an 
officer of the Crown, he vindicated and cleared his character.! 

When Nature her great masterpiece designed, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She formed of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth ; 

Plain plodding industry, and sober worth ; 

Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, 

And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 

Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, 

And all mechanics 1 many-apron'd kinds. 

Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 

The lead and buoy are needful to the net ; 

The caput mortuum of gross desires 

Makes a material for mere knights and squires ; 

The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 

She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough, 

Then marks th' unyielding mass with grave designs, 

Law, physics, politics, and deep divines : 

Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 

The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 

Nature well pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good ; 

But ere she gave creating labour o'er, 

Half-jest, she tried one curious labour more. 

Some spumy, fiery, ignis faiuus matter, 

Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter; 

With arch alacrity and conscious glee 

(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 

Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 

She forms the thing, and christens it — a poet, 

Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 

When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 

A being form'd t'amuse his graver friends, 

Admir'd and prais'd— and there the homage ends : 



208 BURNS'S POEMS. 

A mortal quite unfit for fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life ; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest nature is not quite a Turk, 

She laugh' d at first, then felt for her poor work. 

Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 

She cast about a standard tree to find ; 

And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 

Attached him to the generous truly great, 

A title, and the only one I claim, 

To lay strong hold for help on bounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough ; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend, 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend !" 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason and who give by rule, 
(Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor will do wait upon / should — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good! 
Ye wise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But, come, ye who the godlike pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distinguished — to bestow ! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace ; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul half blushing, half afraid, 
Backward, abash'd, to ask thy friendly aid ? 
I know my need, I know thy paying hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command ; 
But there are such who court the tuneful Nine — 
Heavens! should the branded character be mine ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 209 

Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 

Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 

Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 

Soars on the spurning wing of injur' d merit ! 

Seek not the proofs in private life to find ; 

Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 

So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 

But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 

In all the clam'rous cry of starving want, 

They dun benevolence with shameless front ; 

Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays,' 

They persecute you all your future days ! 

Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 

My horny fist assume the plough again : 

The pie- bald jacket let me patch once more ; 

On eighteenpence a-week I've liv'd before. 

Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift! 

I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : 

That, plac'd by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 

Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 

My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 

ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN 
SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN MILLER, FOR 
THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

Fintry, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my muse, friend o' my life, 

Are ye as idle's I am ? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg, country flirg 

O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg, 

And ye shall see me try him. 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig* bears, 

Who left the all-important cares 

Of princes and their darlings : 

And bent on winning borough towns, 

Cam' shakin' hands wi' wabster louns, weaver 

And kissing barefit carlins. barefoot, 

n old women 

* Duke of Queensberry. 



210 BUENOS POEMS. 

Combustion through our boroughs rode, 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue * unfurl'd, 
And Wasterhaf and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war, 
The unmanner'd dust might soil his star, 

Besides, he hated bleeding ; 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Cesarean fight 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

O for a throat like huge Mons-meg,J 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners ; 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdo § and his lovely spouse, 
(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the loves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all conquering, play'd his part. 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch|| led a light -arm' d corps ; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder ; 
Glenriddel,!" skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bar'd the treason under. 

In either wing, two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig,** who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory, 
And Welsh,ff who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 



* Fox's colours. f Sir James Johnstone, the Tory candidates 

t A large cannon cast at Mons in Belgium, now in toe Castle of Edinburgh. 
§ Chamberlain to the Duke of Queensberry. U Fergusson of Craigdarroch 
% Captain Riddel, of GlenriddeL 
** The provost of Dumfries. ft The sheriff. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 

High wav'd his magnum bonum round 
With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller* brought up the artillery ranks, 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Kesistless desolation ; 
While Maxwelton, f that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's port entrench' d his hold, 

And threatened worse damnation. 



211 



To these, what Tory hosts oppos'd ; 
With these, what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush'd to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 
* 
What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie? 
Grim horror grinn'd ; pale terror roar d 
As murther at his thrapple shor'd ; 

And hell mixt in the brulzie ! 



describing 



conflict 



throat 
threatened 
broil 



As Highland crags, by thunder cleft, 

When lightnings fire the stormy lift, heaven 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods ; 

Such is the rage of battle. 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly, 

Before th' approaching fellers ; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers.J 

Lo, in the shades of death's deep night, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former daring ! 
The muffled murtherer of Charles (Charles I.) 

* Of Dalswinton. f Sir R. Lawrie, M.P. 

% An appellation given to a tremendous rocky recess on the Aberdeenshire 
coast, near Peterhead. 



212 BURNS'S POEMS. 

The Magna Cliarta flag unfurls, 
All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame ; 

Bold Scrimgeour * follows gallant Graham ef — 

Auld Covenanters shiver — 
(Forgive, forgive, much-wrong' d Montrose ! 
While death and hell engulph thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns ; 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But fate the word has spoken — 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can — 

The Tory ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my e'en were flowing burns ! eyes, streams 

My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing! 
That I might greet, that I might cry, weep 

While Tories fall, while Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but wails the good Sir James ; 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ? 
Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the gen'rous crave ! 

And Stuart bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow, 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
Now Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, " prince, arise! 

Thy power is all prevailing !" 

For your poor friend, the Bard afar, 
He hears, and only hears the war, 

A cool spectator purely ; 
So when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 

• John, Earl of Dundee, a staunch royalist during the " commonwea^h n 
t The great Marquis of Montrose. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 213 



THIRD EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg : 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) ; 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail ? 
(It soothes poor misery, harkening to her tale), 
And hear him curse the light he first survey 'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade ? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature ! I arraign ; 

Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 

The lion and the bull thy care have found, 

One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground : 

Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 

Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell ; 

Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour, 

In all the omnipotence of rule and power ; 

Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles insure ; 

The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 

Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 

The priest and hedgehog in their robes are snug ; 

Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 

Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts : — 

But, oh ! thou bitter stepmother and hard, 

To thy poor, 'fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 

A thing unteachable in world's skill, 

And half an idiot, too, more helpless still ; 

No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun ; 

No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun ; 

No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 

And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 

No nerves olfact'ry, Mammon's trusty cur, 

Clad in rich dullness' comfortable fur ; 

In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 

He bears the unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 

Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 

And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ! — appall'd I venture on the name, 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame: 






214 BURXS'S POEMS. 

Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes !* 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 

By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 

His well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 

By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear ; 

Foil'd, bleeding, torturd, in the unequal strife, 

The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 

Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd, 

And fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd, 

Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast : 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tuning bitch's son. 



CO 



Oh dullness ! portion of the truly blest ! 

Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 

Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 

If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 

With sober, selfish ease they sip it up : 

Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, 

They only wonder " some folks" do not starve. 

The grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, heron 

And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. • ^na drake 

When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 

And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 

With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 

And just conclude that u fools are fortune's care." 

So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 

Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

]STot so the idle muses' mad-cap train, 

Xot such the workings of their moon-struck brain ; 

In equanimity they never dwell, 

By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted helL 

I dread thee, fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 

* Alluding to the eminent anatomist, Professor Alexander Monro, of the Edin« 
burgh university. 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



215 



Already one strong hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Tied, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears 
And left us darkling in a world of tears : ) 
Oh! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r! — 
Fintry, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown ; 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path, 
Give energy to life, and soothe his latest breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death ! 



FOURTH EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM OF FINTRY, 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled muse may suit a bard that feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer, as the giver, you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 

And all ye many sparkling stars of night ; 

If aught that giver from my mind efface, 

If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 

Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 

Only to number out a villain's years ! 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

At that time assistant and successor to the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of 
Tarbolton— an excellent preacher, and of liberal religious views. He became 
depressed in mind, in consequence of his dependent situation, and fell into dis- 
sipated habits. He ultimately enlisted as a common scldier, and died abroad. 

September 17, 1785. 

While at the stook the shearers cow'r S reajers 

To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, beating 

Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r confusion 
To pass the time, 



216 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



To you I dedicate the hour 
In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 
• On gown, and ban', and douce black bonnet, 
Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
And rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse h-11 upon me. 

But I gae mad at then grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and half-mile graces, 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gawn,* misca't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him. 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've use't him ? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
And shall his fame and honour bleed 

By worthless skellums, 
And not a muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ! 

Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gi'e the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

And tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 



sober 
fearful 



bard 



loose 



stretching 
whose 
worse than 

miscalled 
worse 
more 
good as 



wretches 
praters 

give 



* Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 217 

God knows, I'm no the thing I should be, 
Nor am I even the thing I could be, 
But twenty times I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 

An honest man may like a lass, 

But mean revenge, and malice fause, foise 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They tak' religion in their mouth ; 

They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth, 

For what ? — to gi'e their malice skouth scope 

On some puir wight, poor 

And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thee ; daics 

To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch' t and foul wi' mony a stain, 

And far unworthy of thy train, 

With trembling voice I tune my strain 

To join with those, 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 

In spite 6* crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite o' undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs, 

At worth and merit, 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

Oh Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 



dare 



218 



BURNS 7 S POEMS, 



A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd, 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd ; 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd ; 
And some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd 

(Which gi'es you honour,) 
Ev'n, Sir, by them your heart's esteem' d, 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
And if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to the utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



gives 



one 
whose 



belonged to 



THE AMERICAN WAR. 

A FRAGMENT. 

[This is a good exhibition of what is termed " smithy politics." Burns was at 
this time a Tory.] 

When Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, twist 

Ae night, at tea, began a plea, one 

Within America, man ; 
Then up they gat the maskin'-pat, got, tea-pot 

And in the sea did jaw, man ; pour out 

And did nae less, in full Congress, no 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, s nofc 

I wat he was na slaw, man ; slow' 

Down Dowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca', man ; call 

But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, fail 

Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Aniang his en'mies a', man. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 219 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage, 

Was kept at Boston ha', man ; hall 

Till Willie Howe took owre the knowe hm 

For Philadelphia, man ; 
Wi' sword and gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man : good 

But at New York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', man. small 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur and whip, we nt 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man ; fail 

Then lost his way, ae misty day, one 

In Saratoga shaw, man. valley 

Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, coul(1 

And did the buckskins claw, man ; 

But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save, s l0Ye from 

He hung it to the wa\ man. wall 

Then Montague, and Guildford too, 

Began to fear a fa' man ; fall 

And Sackville dour, wha stood the stoure, £tout * dust 

The German Chief to thraw, man : disappoint 

For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, any 

!Nae mercy had at a', man ; no 
And Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

And lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. loosed 

Then Eockingham took up the game, 

Till death did on him ca', man ; 
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek, 

Conform to gospel law, man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

They did his measures thraw, man, thwart 

For North and Fox united stocks, 

And bore him to the wa', man. 

Then clubs and hearts were Charlie's cartes, cards 

He swept the stakes awa', man, 
Till the diamond's ace, of Indian race, 

Led him a sair faux pas, man ; sore 

The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads, public cans 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man ; 
And Scotland drew her pipe, and blew, 

M Up, Willie, waur them a\ man !" worst 



220 BTJRNS'S POEMS* 

Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; two 

While slee Dundas arous'd the class sly 

Be-north the Roman wa', man : north of 

And Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graitb spirit, dress 

(Inspired Bardies saw, man), bards 

Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, " Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a' man ?" 

But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co., 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, struck 

Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise ^lothSf' 

Behind him in a raw, man ; row 
And Caledon threw by the drone, 

And did her whittle draw, man ; dagger 

And swoor fu' rnde, thro' dirt and blood, swore 

To mak' it guid in law, man. good 



THE INVENTORY. 

IN ANSWER TO A MANDATE BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES. 



Sir, as your mandate did request, 
I send you here a faithfu' list 
0' guids and gear, and a' my graith, 
To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I ha'e four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew afore a pettle. 
My han' afore's* a guid auld has been 
An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been. 
My han' ahin'sf a weel gaun filly, 
That aft has borne me hame frae Ivillie, J 
An' your auld burro' mony a time, 
In days when riding was nae crime — 
But ance, whan in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 
(L — pardon a' my sins an' that too ! ) 

* The fore-horse on the left hand in the p-oush. 
t The hindmost on the left hand in the plough. 



goods, riches, 
gear 
give, oath 



plough-stick 
good old 
stout 

well going 
from 



once 
behoved 
so put 



X Kilmarnock. 



BURNSS POEMS. 



221 



I play'd my filly sic a shavie, 

She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 

My fur ahin's* a wordy beast, 

As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd. 

The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 

A d — n'd red wud Kilburnie blastie ! 

Forbye a cowte o' cowtes the wail, 

As ever ran afore a tail. 

If he be spar'd to be a beast, 

He'll draw me fifteen pun at least. 

Wheel carriages I ha'e but few, 

Three carts, an' twa are feckly new ; 

Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token, 

Ae leg an' baith the trams are broken ; 

I made a poker o' the spin'le, 

An' my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 

For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 
A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 
Wee Davock hauds the nowt in fother. 
I rule them, as I ought, discreetly, 
An' aften labour them completely; 
An' aye on Sundays duly, nightly, 
I on the Questions targe them tightly ; 
Till, faith, wee Davock's turn'd sae gleg, 
Tho' scarcely langer than your leg, 
He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling,f 
As fast as ony in the dwalling. 
I've nane in female servan' station, 
(L — keep me aye frae a' temptation !) 
I ha'e nae wife — and that my bliss is, 
An' ye have laid nae tax on misses ; 
An' then, if kirk folks dinna clutch me, 
I ken the devils darena touch me. 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 
Heav'n sent me ane mae than I wanted. 
My sonsie, smirking, dear bought Bess, t 
She stares the daddy in her face, 
Enough of ought ye like but grace ; 



trick 
spavin 
worthy 
plough, 
harnessed 



wild, dwarf 
besides, colt, 
choice 



pounds 

nearly 
one old, 
more 



burnt, wheel 



ploughman, 

one 
keep?, cattle, 

fodder 



examine 
so sharp 



dwelling 



do not 
dare not 
more, well 
one more 
comely 



* The hindmost horse on the right hand in the plough. 

f "What is Effectual Calling?" is a conspicuous question in the Shorter Cate- 
chism of the Westminster Assembly of Divines— universally used in Scot- 
land.— Ch. 

% His illegitimate child^ 



222 BURNS'S POEMS. 

But her, my bonnie, sweet wee lady, 

I've paid enough for her already, 

An' gin ye tax her or her mither, 

B' the L — ! ye'se get them a' thegither. B n together 

An' now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 
Kae kind o' license out I'm talon' ; 

Thro' dirt an' dub for life I'll paidle, pool, walk 

Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 

I've sturdy bearers, Guid be thankit. Thanked 

Sae dinna put me in your buke, do not, hook 

Nor for my ten white shillings luke. look 

This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it, own 

The day an' date as under noted ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns. 
Sabscripsi huic, Robert Burns. 

Mossgiel, February 22, 1786 



LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S 
AMOUR. 

Alas ! how often does goodness wound itself! 

And sweet affection prove the spring of woe !— Homb. 

[Notwithstanding the title, this pathetic lament is known to refer to the un- 
fortunate issue of his own amour with Jean Armour, when her friends forced 
her to break their clandestine nuptial engagement, and took legal steps to 
cause him to provide for her expected offspring. " This was a most melancholy 
affair," writes he to Moore, "which I cannot yet hear to reflect on, and had 
very nearly given me one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among 
those who have lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality."] 

Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigils keep, 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

How life and love are all a dream. 

I joyless view thy rays adorn 
The faintly marked distant hill ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 225 

I joyless view thy trembling horn, 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad love-lorn lamentings claim ; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flame ; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promis'd father's tender name ; 

These were the pledges of my love ! 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptured moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ! — is she gone, 

My secret heart's exulting boast ? 
And does she heedless hear my groan ? 

And is she ever, ever lost ? 

Oh ! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy 'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts employ'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 



224 BUENS'S POEMS. 

The morn that warns the approaching day, 

Awakes me up to toil and woe: 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe, 

Keen recollection's direful train, 
Must ring my soul, ere Phoebus low, 

Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watching with the nightly thief; 
Or if 1 slumber, fancy, chief, 

Eeigns haggard-wild, in sore affright : 
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, 

From such a horror -breathing night. 

Oh ! thou bright queen, who o'er th' expanse, 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless sway ! 
Oft has thy silent -marking glance 

Observ'd us fondly wand'ring stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 

Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro* ; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow, 



BURNS's POEMS. 



225 



A NOTE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, Esq., MAUCHLINE. 
(recommending a boy.) 

Mosgaville, May 3, 1786. 
I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 
Alias, Laird M'Gaun, 



Was here to hire yon lad •ay 
'Bout whom ye spak' the tffher day, 

An' wad ha'e don't afFhan' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,* 
An' tellin' lies about them ; 
As lieve then, I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair, 
If sae be ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 



spoke, other 
•would, off- 
hand 
hoy 

much 

old cow's 



Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough, 

An' 'bout a house that's rude and rough. 

The boy might learn to swear ; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I havena ony fear. 
Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 

An' shore him weel wi' hell ; 
An' gar him follow to the kirk — 
Aye when ye gang yoursel'. 
If ye then maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday ; 
Then please, Sir, to lea'e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I ha'e gi'en, 

In Paisley John's, that night at e'en, 

To meet the warld's worm ; 
To try to get the twa to gree, 
An' name the airles an' the fee, 

In legal mode an' form : 



sharp 



straight 
haye not any 

threaten 
make 
go 

must 
from home 



two, agree , 
earnest- 
money 



* Tootie lived in Mauchline, and dealt in cows. The age of these animals is 
marked by rings on their horns, which may of course be cut and polished off, so 
as to cause the cow to appear younger than it is. This villanyis called sneck- 
draicing, and he who perpetrates it is a sneck-drawer.— -Cft, 



226 BURNS'S POEMS. 

I ken he weel a snick can draw, is cunning 

When simple bodies let him ; 
An' if a devil be at a', 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, an' praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minsth^ Burns. 



^ 



DESPONDENCY, 

AN ODE, 

["I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic genius, that 
we can give our w$es, cares, joys, and loves, an embodied form in verse, which 
to me is ever immediate ease!" .... "My passions raged like so many 
devils, till they got vent in rhyme."— Burns.} 

Oppressed with grief, oppressed with care, 
A burden more than X can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
Oh life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro', 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom ; 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life, 
Who, equal to the bustling strife, 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied, 
Yet while the busy means are plied, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 

And joyless morn the same ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 227 

You, bustling, and justling, 

Forget each grief and pain ; 
I, listless, yet restless, 

Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild wi^tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move, 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze^ 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 

When manhood is your wish I 



228 BURNS *S ±>0EM9. 

The losses, the crosses, 
That active man engage! 

The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim declining age ! 



i 



ADDRESS TO ^DINBURGH. 

[This poem was -written immediately after the poet's arrival in Edinburgh. 
' "Fair Burnet is the heavenly Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monhoddo. There 
has not been anything nearly like her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, 
and goodness, the great Creator has formed since Milton's Eve on the first day 
of her existence."— (Burns to his friend Chalmers.) Curious—that Lord Mon- 
hoddo with such a beautiful specimen in the person of his daughter, should have 
held such absurd notions on the origin of the human race.] 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly- scatter' d flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here, Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod ; 
There Learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina ! social, kind, 

With open arms the stranger hail ; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn, 
Gay as the gilded summer sky, 



BTJRNS's POEMS. 229 

Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine ; 
I see the Sire of Love on high, 

And own his work indeed divine ! 

There, watching high*' the least alarms, 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar 5* 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar ; 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock ; 
Have oft withstood assailing war, 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome,f 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild- wan d'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just ! 

Wild beats my heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore, 

Haply, my sires have left their shed, 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led i 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's so v 'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I strayed, 
And singing, lone, the hng'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour 'd shade. 

* The Castle. f Holyrood Palaca 



230 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



grinning 
would 

woe is me ! 



TO JOHN GOUDIE OF KILMARNOCK, 

ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 

[This poem was first published in 1801, along with the "Jolly Beggars." The 
publication referred to, was on the heterodox side of the M'Gill controversy.] 

Oh Goudie ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats an' rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glow'rin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water: 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gi'e her name up i' the chapel,* 

Nigh unto death ; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gane in a galloping consumption, 

Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gi'es strong presumption 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you an' Taylor f are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
But gin the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



old 

awful shake 



strains, 
windpipe 



gone 
cleverness 



gives 



if, own folk 
empty 
two, would 



* To be publicly prayed for. 
t Dr. Taylor of Norwich* 



BUKNS'S POEMS, 



231 



EPISTLE TO JOHN KANKESTE, 

ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 

[A man of rough wit and social temper, and of liberal religions opinions.] 

Oh rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 

The wale o' cocks for fun an' drinkin' ! choice 

There's mony godly folks are thinkin' 

Your dreams* an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straught to Auld Nick's. straight 



Ye ha'e sae mony cracks an' cants, 
An' in your wicked, drucken rants, 
Ye mak' a devil o' the saunts, 

An' fill them fou ; 
An' then their failings, flaws, an 7 wants, 

Are a' seen through. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 
That holy robe, oh dinna tear it ! 
Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear.it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 

Think, wicked sinner, wha ye 're skaithing, 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak' that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or L 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargained for, an' mair ; 
Sae, when ye ha'e an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang f ye'll sen 't wi' canny care, 

An' no neglect. 



drunken 

saints 
drunk 



do not 
who, often 



hurting 
clothing 
saints, 
nothing 



from 



thoughtful 



* A certain humorous dream of his was then making some noise in the 
country-side —Burns. 
t A song he had promised the author — R. B. 






232 



BURNS S POEMS. 



Though, faith, sma' heart ha'e I to sing ! 
My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 
I've play'd mysel' a bonnie spring I 

An' danced my fill ; 
I'd better gane an' sair't the king, 

At Bunker's Hill. 



served 



'Twas ae night lately, in my fun, 

I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 

An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
An', as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 

The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 

I straikit it a wee for sport, 

Ne'er thinkin' they would fash me fbr't ; 

But de'il-ma'-care ! 
Somebody tells the poacher court 

The hale affair. 



one 

went 
partridge, 
ground 



would 



stroked 
trouble 



whole 



Some auld-used hands had ta'en a note 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot ; 

I scorn'd to lee ; 
So gat the whistle o' my groat, 

An' pay't the fee. 

But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my powther an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear, 
The game shall pay, o'er muir an' dale, 

For this, neist year. 

As soon's the cloakin' time is by, 
An' the wee pouts begin to cry, 
L — d, I'se ha'e sportin' by an' by, 

For my gowd guinea, 
Though I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame I 
'Twas neither broken wing nor limb, 



such 



choice 
powder 



next 

breeding 
poults 

gold 
cows 



indeed, much 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



2 pa 



But twa- three draps about the wame, 
Scarce through the feathers 

An' baith a yellow George to claim, 
An' thole their blethers ! 

It pits me aye as mad's a hare : 
Sol can rhyme nor write nae mair ! 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

"When time's expedient: 
Meanwhile I am, respected sir, 

Your most obedient. 



belly 

both 

suffer, non- 
sense 

puts 
no more 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

In my early years nothing less would serve me than courting the tragic muse. 
I was, I think, about eighteen or nineteen when 1 sketched the outlines of a 
tragedy forsooth; but the bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, whjch had 
for some time threatened us, prevented my farther progress. In those days I 
never wrote down anything; so, except a speech or two, the whole has escaped 
my memory. The following, which I most distinctly remember, was an excla- 
mation from a great character— great in occasional instances of generosity, and 
daring at times in villanies. He is supposed to meet with a child of misery, and 
exclaims to himself:— 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness : 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs, 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears indignant I behold the oppressor 

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 

Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you ; 

Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity ; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds, 

Whom vice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to ruin. 

— Oh, but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you ! 



234 BURNS'S POEMS. 

A PRAYER 

UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

[" There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated 
losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the utter ruin of my 
fortune. My mind too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypo- 
chondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of 
which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in 
gome lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following."— Burns.} 

Oh thou great Being ! what Thou art 

Surpasses me to know : 
Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 

Are all thy works below. 

Thy creature here before Thee stands, 

All wretched and distrest ; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 

Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh, free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man my soul with firm resolves 

To bear and not repine ! 



A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Oh thou unknown, Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun ; 
As something, loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me, 
With passions wild and strong ; 

And listening to their witching voice 
Has often led me wrong. 

Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou, All-good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But Thou art good ; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



235 



STANZAS 



ON THE SAME OCCASION* 

["The * Prayer* and the 'Stanzas' were composed when fainting fits and 
other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy or some other dangerous disorder, 
which indeed still threatens me, first put nature on the alarm."— Burns.] 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene ? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms ? 
Some drops of joy, with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms: 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms ? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode ? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms ; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, u Forgive my foul offence !" 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way : 
Again in folly's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray, 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? 



236 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Oh Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel my pow'rs to be, 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line ; 
Oh, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom ; 
Whose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given — 
She's from a world of woe reliev'd, 

And blooms a rose in heaven. 



1 



LINES INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN UNDER A 
NOBLE EARL'S PICTURE. 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien, 

E'en rooted foes admire ? 
Stranger ! to justly show that brow, 

And mark that eye of fire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints 

His other works inspire. 

Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 

With stately port he moves ; 
His guardian seraph eyes with awe 

The noble ward he loves — 
Among the illustrious Scottish sons 

That chief thou may'st discern ; 
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye — 

It dwells upon Glencairn. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



237 



ON A SCOTCH BAKD, 

GONE TO THE WEST INDIES. 

[Written on himself, in anticipation of his departure] 

A' ye wlia live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo -clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come, mourn wi' me ! 
Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink, 

And owre the sea. 

Lament him a 1 ye ran tin core, 
Wha dearly like a random-splore, 
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

And owre the sea ! 

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him : 
The widows, wives, and a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfu' e'e ; 
For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 

That's owre the sea ! 

Oh fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Hadst thou ta'en affsome drowsy bummle, 
Wha can do nought but fyke and fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea ; 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea ! 

Auld canty Kyle may weepers wear, 
And stain them wi' the saut, saut tear ; 
* Twill mak' her poor auld heart, I fear, 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureat mony a year, 

That's owre the sea ! 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor- wast 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast ; 
A jillet brak his heart at last, 
111 may she be ! 



quantities 
versifying 



comrade, the 
slip 



folks 
frolic 



wish 



guess, sorely 



bungler 
fidget 

sharp, wirnhle 



cheerful 
salt 

spM ntcrs 



cold, west 
jilt 



238 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



So, took a berth afore the mast f 
And owre the sea. 



To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 
TVT his proud, independent stomach, 

Could ill agree : 
So row't his hurdies in a hammock, 

And owre the sea. 



rod 

meal and 
water 



rolled, 
posteriors 



He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding — 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was a' that he took pride in, 

That's owre the sea. 



would not 



Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel : 
Ye'll find him aye a dainty chiel, 

An' fou o' glee ; 
He wad na wrang'd the vera de'il, 

That's owre the sea. 



wrap, snug 
shelter 
feliow 

fall 



Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie ; 
But may ye flourish like a lily, 

Xow bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



comrade 
ill-willed 



gill 



THE FAREWELL. 

•' The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer t 

Or what does he regard his single woes ? 

But when, alas! he multiplies himself, 

To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 

To those whose bliss, whose beings hang upon him, 

To helpless children '.— then, oh then i he feels 

The point of misery fest'ring in his heart, 

And weakly weeps* his fortune like a coward. 

Such, such am II undone!" — Thomso.n's " Edward and Eleanora.* 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 
Where rich ananas blow ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 239 

Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share 1 
Adieu too, to you too, 

My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 
When kindly you mind me, 
Oh then befriend my Jean ! 

What bursting anguish tears my heart ! 
From thee, my Jeanie, must I part ! 
Thou, weeping, answ'rest " Ko !" 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much indebted tear, 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore 1 
It rustles, and whistles — 
I'll never see thee more ! 



WRITTEN 



ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A COPY OF THE POEMS, PRESENTED 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd and still remember'd dear ; 

Sweet early object of my youthful vows! 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere— 

Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him— he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



240 BURNS'S POEMS. 

THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A SATIRE. 

[This poem was written in Dumfriesshire, ahout August, 17S9, with reference 
to an attempt to convict Dr. M'Gill of heresy in the Church courts.] 

Orthodox, orthodox, 

Wha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 

There's a heretic blast 

Has been blawn in the wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 

Dr. Mac* Dr. Mac, 

You should stretch on a rack 
To strike evil doers wi' terror ; 

To join faith an' sense 

Upon ony pretence, 
Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr,f 

It was mad, I declare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing ; 

Provost John 4: is still deaf 

To the church's relief, 
An' orator Bob § is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild,|| D'rymple mild, 

Tho' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new driven-snaw, 

Yet that winna save ye, win not 

Auld Satan must have ye, 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. one, two 

Rumble John,^[ Rumble John, 

Mount the steps wi' a groan, 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd ; 

Then lug out your ladle, 

Deal brimstone like adle, 
An' roar every note of the damn'd. 

* Dr. M'Gill. 

t The magistrates of Ayr published a testimonial in Dr. M 'Gill's favour. 
t John Ballantyne, Esq., provost of Ayr. 
§ Mr. Robert Aiken, writer in Ayr. 

fi The Rev. Dr. "William Dalrymple, senior minister of the collegiate charge 
of Ayr. 
T The Eev. John Russell, celebrated in the "Holy Fair." 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



241 



Simper James,* Simper James, 

Leave the fair Killie dames, 
There's a holier chase in your view ; 

I'll lay on your head, 

That the pack ye'll soon lead, 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,t Singet Sawney, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await? 

Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld,J Daddy Auld, 

There's a tod in the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk ;§ 

Though ye can do little skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death, 
And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, || Davie Bluster, 

If for a saint ye do muster, 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose,*]" Jamie Goose, 

Ye ha'e made but toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant ; 

But the Doctor's your mark, 

For the L — d's haly ark ; 
He has cooper'd and cawt a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie,** Poet Willie, 
Gi'e the Doctor a volley, 



Kilmarnock 



fox, fold 
much -worse 
harm 

cannot 



empty praise 



driven 



* The Rev. James M'K , the hero of the "Ordination." 

t The Rev. Mr. Alexander Moodie, of Riccarton, one of the "Twa Herds." 
t The Rev. Mr. Auld, of Mauchline. 
§ The clerk was Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 

|| Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. If Mr« Young:, Cumnock. 

** The Rev. Dr. Peebles. In a poem on the Centenary of the Revolution, the 
following ridiculous line had occurred:— 

"And hound in Liberty's endearing chain." 



242 BURXS'S POEMS. 

Wi' your Liberty's Chain and your wit ; 

O'er Pegasus' side 

Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye but smelt, man, the place where he . 

Andro Gouk,* Andro Gouk, 

Ye may slander the book, 
And the book not the waur, let me tell ye; 

Ye are rich, and look big, 

But lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 



Barr Steenie,t Barr Steenie, 

What mean ye, what mean ye? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 

Ye may ha'e some pretence 

To havins and sense, 
Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 



manners 
no 



Irvine side,f Irvine side, 

W' your Turkey-cock pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 

Ye've the figure, 'tis true, 

Even your faes will allow, 
And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 



foes 



Muirland Jock,§ Muirland Jock, 

When the L — d makes a rock 
To crush Common Sense for her sins, 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 



Holy WiU,|| Holy Will, 
There was wit i' your skull, 

"When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor ; 
The timmer is scant, 
When ye're ta'en for a saunt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 



timber 
saint 



* Dr. Andrew Mitchell, Monkton. t Eev. Mr. Stephen Young, Barr. 

X Rev. Mr. George Smith, Galston. § Mr. John Shepherd, Muirkirk. 

| William Fisher, the subject of satire in " Holy Willie's Prayer." 



BURNS'S POEMS. 243 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 

Seize your sp'ritual guns, 
Ammunition you never can need : 

Your hearts are the stuff, 

Will be powther enough, powder 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire ? 

Your muse is a gipsy ; 

E'en tho' she were tipsy, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. worse 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1787. 

[This poem was originally named "The Gowan," the Scottish term for the 
"Mountain Daisy." Currie justly says, that "to extract out of an incident so 
common, and seemingly so trivial, so fine a train of sentiment and imagery, is 
the surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph of original genius."] 

Wee, modest, crimson- tipped flow'r, 

Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 

For I maun crush amang the stoure must, dust 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, 

The bonnie lark, companion meet, 

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet! wet 

Wi' speckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blythe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north cold 

Upon thy early, humble birth ; 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth glanced 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 






244 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods an' wa's maun shield : 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-neld, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise ; ! 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soii'd, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred ! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er ! 



must 
shelter 

dry stubble 



Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 

By human pride or cunning driv'n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom, 



245 
TO A MOUSE, 

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER^ 1785. 

[This beautiful poem was composed while the author was holding the plough. 
Jolm Blane, farm servant at Mossgiel at the time, was driving while Burns 
held the plough, when the little creature was observed running off across the 
field. Blane thoughtlessly ran after it with the plough-stick to kill it, when 
Burns interfered, asking what ill the poor mouse had ever done him. During 
the night following he awoke Blane, who was his bedfellow, and, reading the 
poem, asked what he thought of the mouse now.} 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! h ^la S 

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, loth 

Wi' murd'ring pattle ! plough stick 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal ! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; sometimes 

What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live ! must 
A daimen icker in a thrave * 

'S a sma' request ; small 

I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, rest 

An' never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! rank grass 

An' bleak December's winds ensuhr 

Baith snell an' keen ! both sharp 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 

An' cozie here, beneath the blast, comfortable 

Thou thought to dwell, 

* An ear of corn now and then in twenty -four sheaves. 



1 



246 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee hit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 



stubble 



without, hold 
endure, 
drizzle 
hoar frost 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 

For promis'd joy. 

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear ! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



go oft wrong 



TO A HAGGIS. 

[The haggis is a dish peculiar to Scotland, composed of minced offal of mutton, 
mixed with oatmeal and suet, and boiled in a sheep's stomach. The following 
composition was first published in the Scots Magazine for January, 1787.] 



Fair fa' your honest sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race ! 
Aboon them a' ye tak' your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy of a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill, 
Your hurdies like a distant hill, 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 



befall, plump 



paunch, gut 
worthy- 



would 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



247 



His knife see rustic labour dight, wI P e 

And cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like ony ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin', rich ! 

Then horn for horn they stretch and strive, 
De'il tak' the hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a' their weel-swalPd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums ; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

u Bethankit"hums. 

Is there that owre his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak' her spew 

Wi' perfect scunner, disgust 

Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! such 



stomachs 
. by and by 



returns 
thanks 



nauseate 



Poor devil ! see him owre his trash, 

As feckless as a wither'd rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit ; 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

Oh how unfit. 



feeble 
good 
fist, nut 



But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his walie nieve a blade, 

He'll mak' it whissle ; 
And legs, and arms, and heads will sned, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 

Ye pow'rs wha mak' mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies ; 
But, if ye wish her gratefu' pray'r, 

Gi'e her a haggis ! 



put, lusty 



iop 
thistles 



thin stuff 

splashes, 

bowls 



248 



BURNS S POEMS. 



TO A LOUSE, 

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET, AT CHURCH. 

Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin, ferlie ! 
Your impudence protecfs you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace ; 
Tho', faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 



Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner, 
Detested, shunn'd, by saunt and sinner, 
How dare ye set your fit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haifet squattle ; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumpin 1 cattle, 

In shoals and nations ; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er daur unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

]STow, hand you there, ye're out o' sight, 
Below the fatt'rells, snug and tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till ye've got on it, 
The vera tapmost towring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 

My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose out, 
As plump and gray as ony grozet, 
Oh for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

I wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flannen toy ; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 
On's wyliecoat ; 



going, 
wonder 
sorely 

cannot, strut 



such 

saint 
foot 

go 



away! cheek 
squat 
scramble 



dare 



hold 
ribbon-ends 



very topmost 



bold 

gooseberry 
rosin 
powder 

breech 

would not 

flannel cap 
perhaps 
ragged 
undercoat 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



249 



But Miss's fine Lnnardi ! fie !* 
How daur ye do't ? 

Oh Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
And set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin 1 ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 



dare 



do not 
abroad 



little wretch 
these 



Oh wad some power the giftie gi'e us 
To see oursel's as ithers see us ! 
It wad frae mony a blunder tree us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress and gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n devotion ! 



would 
others 
from 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 



My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang ; 
An' through my lugs gi'es mony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, 

Like racking engines ! 



sting 



When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan ; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I kick the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



big 
young 

mockers 

laugh 
leap 

posteriors 



* A kind of bonnet named after one Lunardi, who made several ascents in his 
balloon in Scotland in 1785. 



250 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools — 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
An' ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dreadful' raw, 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 



sorrows 
harvests 
foolish 
clods 

trouble 
superiority 



all 



Oh thou grim mischief-making chiel, 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe thick ! — 
Gi'e a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmond's toothache ! 



fellow 
makes 



twelve- 
month's 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 

[William Chalmers, writer in Ayr, and a particular friend of the poet, asked 
him to write a poetical epistle in his favour to a young lady to whom he was 
attached. Burns, in compliance, wrote the following.] 



Wi* braw new branks in mickle pride, 

An' eke a braw new brechan, 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

An' up Parnassus pechin' ; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets an' off he sets 

Por sake o' Willie Chalmers. 



bridle, much 
collar 

panting 
stupid 



I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name not 

May cost a pair o' blushes ; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, no 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face sae mild an' sweet, so 

His honest heart enamours, 
An' faith ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. spent 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



251 



Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

An 7 honour safely back her, 
An' modesty assume your air, 

An' ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
An' sic twa love inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 



one 
eyes 



I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

An' band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His lexicons an' grammars ; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

An' that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin', glow'rin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug, an' straik his beard, 

An' hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, an' barefit skelp 

Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers. 



offer 
prim, 
powdered 



staring 
wrestle 
ear, stroke 
cough 



barefoot run 



Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my muse to gi'e 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

An' fructify your amours, 
An' every year come in mair dear 

To you an' Willie Chalmers. 



flatter 



252 



BURNS S POEMS. 



WINTER. 



A DIRGE. 



[Written before 1784, after a train of misfortunes.] 

The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw ; 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae ; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ereast,"* 

The joyless winter day 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May ; 
The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join ; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil, 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are thy will ! 
Then all I want (oh, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 

[Written in the distressing summer of 1786, and first published in the Sun 
newspaper, April, 1S23.] 

Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear, 

Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

* Dr. Young. 



would 



it would 



burns's POEMS. 253 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, rose so 

I thought sair storms wad never sore 

Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 

In wildest fury ha'e made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever ! 

You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel, 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal cannot 

My deeply ranklin' sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; sometimes 

A tear may wet thy laughin' e'e, e > re 

For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — 

Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



TO KUIN. 



All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word. 

The mightiest empires fall ! 
Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all ! 
With stern-resolv'd despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring, 

The storm no more I dread ; 
Though thick'ning and black'ning, 
Round my devoted head. 

And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh, hear a wretch's prayer ! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
I court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care 2 



254 BURNS'S POEMS. 

When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mould'ring in the clay ? 
No fear more, no tear more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



THE FIEST SIX YEESES OF THE NINETIETH 
PSALM. 

Oh Thou, the first, the greatest friend 

Of all the human race ! 
WTiose strong right hand has ever been 

Their stay and dwelling place ! 

Before the mountains heav'd their heads 

Beneath thy forming hand, 
Before this ponderous globe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 

That Pow'r which raised and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before thy sight 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou giv'st the word : Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought ; 
Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !" 

Thou layest them with all their cares 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off 

With overwhelioing sweep. 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



255 



They flourish like the morning flow'r, 
In beauty's pride array'd ; 

But long ere night, cut down, it lie3 
All wither'd and decay'd. 



THE FIRST PSALM. 

The man, in life wherever plac'd, 

Hath happiness in store, 
Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humility and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow ; 

The fruitful top is spread on high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why ? that God the good adore, 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest, 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 

WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 
And blasted be thy murder aiming eye ; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 



256 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field ! 

The bitter little that of life remains ; 

]S T o more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest, 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn ; 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless 
fate, 



VEESES 






WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSON, THE POET, 
IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A 
YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
Oh thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 
By far my elder brother in the muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the bard unpitied by the world, 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 






INSCRIPTION 

ON THE HEADSTONE OF FERGUSON. 

Here lies 

Robert Ferguson, Poet. 

Born, September 5, 1751; 

Died, Oct 15, 1774. 

No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
"No storied urn nor animated bust;" 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust. 



BURNS ? S POEMS. 257 

ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, 
WITH BAYS. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 

Or tunes Eolian strains between : 

While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade, 

Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade : 

While Autumn, benefactor kind, 

By Tweed erects his aged head, 
And sees, with self- approving mind, 

Each creature on his bounty fed ; 

While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Bousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows : 

So long, sweet Poet of the year! 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won £ 
While Scotia, with exulting tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 

TO MY PEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOF 
OF DUNLOP. 

Sensibility how charming, 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell ; 

But distress with horrors arming, 
Thou hast also known too well ! 



Fairest flower, behold the lily, 
Blooming in the sunny ray ; 

Let the blast sweep o'er the valley, 
gee it prostrate on the clay, 



258 BintNs's poems. 

Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
Telling o'er his little joys : 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest, 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure, 
Finer feelings can bestow ; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



OX THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. 

[An only daughter, who died in autumn, 1795, so suddenly and at so great a 
distance as to prevent him from paying her the last duties.] 

Oh sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave, 

My dear little angel, for ever ; 
For ever — oh no ! let not man be a slave, 

His hopes from existence to sever. 

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow' st thy 
head, 

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow, 
The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, 

Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow. 

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph 
form, 
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter 
storm, 
And nestled thee close to that bosom. 

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death, 

Reclined on the lap of thy mother, 
When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled 
breath, 

Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, 
Where suffering no longer can harm ye, 

Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of 
the blest, 
Through an endless existence shall charm thee. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn 
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow, 

O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn, 
And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 



259 



VERSES TO MISS GRAHAM OF FINTRY. 

[Written on the blank leaf of a yolume of Thomson's Select Scottish Melodies 
presented to her by the poet] 

Here, where the Scottish muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift; — tho' humble he who gives, 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian -feeling in thy breast, 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 

Rut peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 
Or love ecstatic wake his seraph song. 

Or pity's notes in luxury of tears, 
As modest want the tale of woe reveals ; 

While conscious virtue all the strain endears, 
And heaven-born piety her sanction seals. 



TO CHLORIS. 

[CMoris' name was Jean Lorimer, whose father was a farmer at Remeyss-hall, 
hear Dumfries. At this time she was depressed in mind in consequence of re- 
cent domestic unhappiness.] 

'Tis friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

ISTor thou the gift refuse, 
In or with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing muse* 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charmi.) 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly f$% 



260 BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 
Chill came the tempest's lower ; 

(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 
Did nip a fairer flower.) 

Since life's gay scenes must charm no more, 

Still much is left behind ; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part ; 

And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 

The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 

With every muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest, 

These joys could he improve. 



LINES 

BENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED, 

[To Mr. Riddel of Woodlee Park.] 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way, 

The fumes of wine infuriate send 
(Not moony madness more astray) — 

Who but deplores that hapless friend ? 

Mine was the insensate frenzied part, 
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive ! — 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 



VERSES TO JOHN EANKIXB, 

Ae dav, as Death, that gruesome carle, *J*JP °' d 

v«r / j • . ,i 1 ,. i fe t, ' fellow 

Was driving to the titner warr other worW 



BURNS'S POEMS. 2G| 

A mixtie-niaxtie motley squad, 

And mony a guilt-bespotted lad ; 

Black gowns of each denomination, 

And thieves of every rank and station. 

From him that wears the star and garter, 

To him that wintles in a halter : <* uivers 

Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches, 

He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, staring 

" By G — , I'll not be seen behint them, 

Nor 'mang the sp 'ritual core present them, folk 

Without, at least, ae honest man, o n ® 

To grace this d — d infernal clan." 

By Adamhill a glance he threw, 

u L — God I" quoth he, u I have it now, 

There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 

And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. stopped 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH* 
TURIT, 

A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE, 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your wat'ry haunt forsake ? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly ? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties ? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
Bide, the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race, 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below : 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tvrant stern to all beside. 



R82 BtJKNS's POEMS. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below, 
In his breast no pity dwells, 
Strong necessity compels : 
But man, to whom alone is giv'n, 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 
In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy rivlet strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on Nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn ; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

AN OCCASIONAL ADDKESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE 
ON HER BENEFIT NIGKT [NOV. 26, 1792]. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fall of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp the Rights of Man ; 
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Eights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection, 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection. 
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate f 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending etonr,, 



BUENS'S POEMS. 

Our second right — but needless here, is caution, 
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion, 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways ; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, 
Nay even thus invade a lady's quiet. 
Now, thank our stars ! these Gothic times are fled ; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred — 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.* 

For Eight the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest, 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move ; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ? 

But truce with kings and truce with constitutions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions, 
Let majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! ca ira ! the majesty of women ! 



A VISION. 



As I stood by yon roofless tower,f 

Where the wa -flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, owl 

). An' tells the midnight moon her care ; 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 

The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 

An' the distant echoing glens reply. 

* An ironical allusion to the annual saturnalia of the Caledonian Hunt at 
Dumfries, 
| The ruins of Lincluden church, near Dumfries. 



g 264 BURNS'S POEMS. 

r 

The stream, adown its hazelly path, 

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 

Whose distant roaring swells an' fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 

Her lights, wi 1 hissing eerie din ; drear? 

Athort the lift they start an' shift, athwart, sky 

Like fortune's favours, tint as win. lost 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, 

An', by the moonbeam, shook to see 
A stern an' stalwart ghaist arise, ghost 

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane, 

His darin' look had daunted me ; 
An' on his bonnet grav'd was plain, 

The sacred posy — u Libertie !" 

An' frae his harp sic strains did flow, from sucn 

Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear ; 

But oh-! it was a tale of woe, 
As ever met a Briton's ear. 

He sang wi' joy the former day, 

He weeping wail'd his latter times ; 
But what he said it was nae play — 

I winna ventur't in my rhymes. will not 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF 
HER SON. 

["The 'Mother's Lament' was composed partly with a view to Mrs. Ferguson of 
Cniigdarroch, and partly to the worthy patroness of my early unknown muse, 
Mrs. Stewart of Alton."— Bums.] 

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierced my darling's heart; : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonour'd laid ; 



BURNS S POEMS. 

So fell the pride of all my hopes, 
My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish' d young ; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,- 

Now, fond I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 



2G5 



THE KUINED MAID'S LAMENT. 

Oh meikle do I rue, fause love, 

Oh sairly do I rue, 
That e'er I heard your flattering tongue, 

That e'er your face I knew. 

Oh I ha'e tint my rosy cheeks, 

Likewise my waist sae sma' ; 
And I ha'e lost my lightsome heart 

That little wist a fa'. 

Now I maun thole the scornfu' sneer 

O' mony a saucy queen ; 
When, gin the truth were a' but kent, 

Her life's been waur than mine. 

Whene'er my father thinks on me, 

He stares into the wa' ; 
My mither, she has ta'en the bed 

Wi' thinking on my fa'. 

Whene'er I hear my father s foot, 

My heart wad burst wi' pain ; 
Whene'er I meet my mither's e'e, 

My tears rin down like rain. 

Alas ! sae sweet a tree as love 

Sic bitter fruit should bear ! 
Alas ! that e'er a bonnie face 

Should draw a sauty tear ! 



much, false 
sorely 



lost 

so small 

guessed 
must bear 

known 
worse 



mother 



would 

eye 

run 



such 
salt 



THE HERMIT. 

WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HERMITAGE BE- 
LONGING TO THE DUKE OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OP 
ABERFELDY. 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
Think not, though from the world receding, 
I joy my lonely days to lead in 

This desert drear ; 
That fell remorse., a conscience bleeding, 

Hath led me here. 

No thought of guilt my bosom sours ; 
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 
For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride, 
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers, 

In state preside. 

I saw mankind with vice encrusted ; 
I saw that honour's sword was rusted ; 
That few for aught but folly lusted ; 
That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 

To love or friend ; 
And hither came, with men disgusted, . 

My life to end. 

In this lone cave, in garments lowly, 

Alike a foe to noisy folly, 

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy, 

I wear away 
My life, and in my office holy 

Consume the day. 

This rock my shield, when storms are blowing, 
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing 
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert wood. 

Content and comfort bless me more in 
This grot, than e'er I felt before in 



BURNS'S POEMS. 26<j 

A palace — and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on high, 
Each night and morn -with voice imploring, 

This wish I sigh. 

11 Let me, O Lord ! from life retire, 
Unknown each guilty worldly fire, 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die, 
Let me in this belief expire — 

To God I fly." 

Stranger, if full of youth and riot, 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet, 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer — 
But if thou hast good cause to sigh at 

Thy fault or care; 

If thou hast known false love's vexation, 
Or hast been exiled from thy nation, 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, 

And makes thee pine, 
Oh 1 how must thou lament thy station, 

And envy mine ! 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER, 
TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

[The petition was granted.] 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain ; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain, 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry- withering, waste my foamy streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly -jumpin' glowrin' trouts, staring 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray ; 



m 



BURNS S POEMS. 



If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 
I'm scorching up so shallow, 

They're left the whitening stanes amang, 
In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
A panegyric rhyme, I ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me ; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 



wept, 

vexation 



promised 
would (have) 



Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin ; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel', 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild, 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow ; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too, a covert shall insure 
To shield them froin the storm j 



going 



lark 
eroldfinch 



BURNS's POEMS. 269 

And coward maukin sleep secure, hare 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat. 

To weave his crown of flow'rs ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat 

From prone descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care. 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms birches 

To screen the dear embrace. 

Here haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some musing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain gray : 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep bending in the pool, 

Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be — " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses I" 



270 



EURNS 7 S POEMS. 



VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS 
NEAR, DRUMLANRIG. 

[The Duke of Queensberry stripped liis domains of Drumlanrig in Dumfries- 
shire, and Neidpath in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to 
enrich the Countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter.— C/i.] 



As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 
Ae smiling simmer morn I strayed, 

An' traced its bonnie howes an' haughs, 
Where linties sang an' lambkins play'd, 

I sat me down upon a craig, 

An' drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below, 
Uprose the genius of the stream. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 
An' troubled, like his wintry wave, 

An' deep, as sughs the boding wind 
Amang his caves, the sigh he gave — 

II An' came ye here, my son," he cried, 
u To wander in my birken shade ? 

To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid. 

" There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might ha'e seen me in my pride, 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide ; 
When hanging beech an' spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear an' cool ; 
An' stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the pool ; 

44 When glinting, through the trees, appeared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
An' peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare an' cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost an' gane, 
An' scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane." 



one 

vales, uplands 

linnets 



sounds 



birchen 



not long ago 
so 



above 

fire 

cold 
gone 
birch 
alone 



BURNS'S POEMS. 271 

"Alas!" said I, "what ruefu' chance 

Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees ? deprived 

Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 

Has stripp'd the deeding o' your braes? clothing 

Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters blight in early spring ? 
Or was't the wil'nre scorched their boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?" 

"Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied; eastern 

" It blew na here sae fierce an' fell, 
An' on my dry an' halesome banks wholesome 

Nae canker worms get leave to dwell : 
Man! cruel man!" the genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him down — 
" The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees. 

That reptile wears a ducal crown !" 



YEESES 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE, IN THE 
PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 

Admiring jSTature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ', 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covied grouse and, timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breaclalbane opens to my view. 
The meeting cliffs each deep sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides ; 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills ; 
The Tay, meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace, rising on its verdant side ; 
The lawns, wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste ; 
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste ; 
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream ; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 



272 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods— 






Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire ; 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds : 
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch 

her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 
* * * * 



i 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE 
APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea : 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav* rocks wake the merry morn, larks 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, blackbird 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis wild wi' mony a note, thrash 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae ; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae ; sloe 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 275 

The meanest hind in fair Scotland 

May rove their sweets araang ; 
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang ! m&st 

I was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I ha'e been, 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, rose 

As blythe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I He in foreign bands, 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman! 

My sister and my fae, foe 

Grim vengeance yet shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! s° 

The weeping blood in woman's breast 

Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! would 

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee : 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Remember him for me ! 

Oh soon, to me, may summer suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! no more 

Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house of death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring 

Bloom on my peaceful grave ! 



p, 






274 BURNS'S POEMS. 



ELEGY ON MISS BUENET OF MOKBODDO. 

[The "heavenly Burnet," as Burns loved to call this lady, was cut off by con* 
sumption at the early age of twenty-five.] 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies ; 
Nor envious death so triumph' d in a blow, 
As that which laid the accomplish' d Burnet low. 

Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget ? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown, 

As by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 

In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves ; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens ; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd ; 
Ye rugged cliffs, o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all .their worth. 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail ? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth, 
And not a muse in honest grief bewail ? 

"We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light that beams beyond the spheres 5 

But, like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care ; 

So deck'd the woodbine sweet yon aged tree ; 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 275 



LAMENT FOE JAMES, EAKL OF GLEXCAIKN. 

[James, Earl of Glencairn, a nobleman of great liberality of mind, and gene- 
rosity of disposition. He died at Falmouth, January 30, 1791, in the forty- 
second year of bis age. Burns, who had been impressed deeply by his character 
and by personal obligations, not only wrote this pathetic lament, but actually put 
on mourning. He also called a son after him, James Glencairn Burns, now- 
Major in the East India Company's service.l 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream ; 
Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,, craggy 

Laden with years an' meikle pain, much 

In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, oak 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years ; 
His locks were bleached white with time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ; 
An' as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

An' as he tun'd his doleful sang, song 

The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. along 

*' Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, an' glad an' gay, 

Again ye'll charm the ear an' e'e ; eye 

But nocht in all revolving time nought; 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

"lama bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain \ 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

An' my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, must 

An' ithers plant them in my room, others 



276 BURNS'S POEMS. 

44 I've seen sae mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown ; 
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved, 

I bare alane my lade o' care, load 

For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

w An' last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies in clay ; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride ! his country's stay — 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
An' hope has left my aged ken, 

On forward wing for ever fled. 

" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe an' wild despair ; 
Awake ! resound thy latest lay — 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! evermore 

An' thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. darkest 

44 In poverty's low barren vale 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round ; 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun, 

That melts the fogs in limpid air, 
The friendless bard and rustic song 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

44 Oh ! why has worth so short a date? 

While villains ripen gray with time : 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime ? 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! — 
Oh ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 27? 



•' The bridegroom may forget the bride, 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen : 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been ; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
3ut I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

An' a' that thou hast done for me!" 



LINES 

6ENT TO SIR JOHN WHITE FOORD, BART. OF WHITE FOORD, 
WITH THE FOREGOING POEM. 

Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 
The friend thou valuedst, I, the patron lov'd ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approved. 
We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



ODE, 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 

[" In January last (1789), on my road to Ayrshire, I had to put up at Bailie 
Wigham's in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. The frost was keen, 
and the grim evening and howling wind were ushering in a night of snow and 
drift. My horse and I were both much fatigued with the labours of the day; 
and just as my friend the bailie and I were bidding defiance to the storm, over 
a smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry of the late Mrs. Oswald; and 
poor I am forced to brave all the terrors of the tempestuous nig:ht, and jade my 
horse— my young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus— farther 
on through the wildest hills and moors of Ayrshire to the next inn ! The powers 
of poetry and prose sank under me when I would describe what I felt. Suffice 
it to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen 
•inews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode."— Burns.] 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation mark ! 



278 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosing with care a bursting purse^ 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither' d beldam's face- 
Can thy keen inspection trace 
Aught of humanity's sweet melting grace ? 
Note that eye, 'tis rheum overflows, 
Pity's flood there never rose. 
See these hands, ne'er stretched to save, 
Hands that took — but never gave. 
Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies lift thine eyes, 

(Awhile forbear, ye tort'ring fiends ;) 

Seest thou whose step, unwilling, hither bends ? 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 

'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 

Doom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And are they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a-year ? 

In other words, can Mammon fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here ? 

Oh, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 

While down the wretched vital part is driv'n ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to heav'n. 



I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



279 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT 

OF GLENCONNER. 

Auld comrade dear, and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner? 
How do you this blae eastlin' wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind ? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
And ilka member nearly dozen'd. 
I've sent you here, by Johnnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on ; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling, 
And Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought and wrangled, 
And meikle Greek and Latin mangled, 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
And in the depth of science niir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives and wabsters see and feel. 
But, hark ye, friend ! I charge you strictly, 
Peruse them, and return them quickly, 
For now I'm grown sae cursed douce, 
I pray and ponder butt the house ; 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin', 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, and Boston ; 
Till, by the bye, if I baud on, 
I'll grunt a real gospel groan : 
Already I begin to try it, 
To cast my e'en up like a pyet, 
"When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring and gasping in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning and a shining light. 






old, brother 
chilly, eastern 



every, 
stupefied 



much 



quiet 
inside 
alone 

hold 



magpie 



My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace and wale o' honest men : 
"When bending down wi' auld gray hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him 
And views beyond the grave comfort him ; 
His worthy fam'ly, far and near, 
God bless them a' wi' grace and gear ! 



good 
choice 



wealth 



280 BURNS'S POEMS. 

My auld schoolfellow, preacher Willie, 

The manly tar, my mason Blllie, 

And Auchenbay, I wish him joy ; 

If he's a parent, lass or boy, 

May he be dad, and Meg the mither, 

Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 

And no forgetting wabster Charlie, 

I'm told he offers very fairly. 

And, Lord, remember singing Sannock, 

Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, and a bannock ; 

And next my auld acquaintance Nancy, 

Since she is fitted to her fancy ; 

And her kind stars ha'e airted till her 

A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 

My kindest, best respects I sen' it, 

To cousin Kate and sister Janet ; 

Tell them, frae me, wi' chiels be cautious, 

For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them fashions. 

And lastly, Jamie, for yoursel', 

May guardian angels tak' a spell, 

And steer you seven miles south o' hell : 

But first, before you see heaven's glory, 

May ye get mony a merry story, 

Mony a laugh, and mony a drink, 

And aye enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, and joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you, 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man : 
Sae I conclude, and quat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

ROB THE RANTER. 






father 

together 

weaver 



breeches 
cake 



directed to 
fellow, soma 
silver 



lads 

possibly, 
troublesome 



money 



quit, pipes 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, 
Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave ; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistled in the rockv cave. 



I 



BURNS'S FOEMS. 281 

Lone as I wander 'd by each cliff and dell, 

Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* 

Or mus'd where limpid streams once hallo w'd well,f 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. J 

Th' increasing blast roared round the beetling rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mixed her wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, 
Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurPd, 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 
With accents wild and lifted arms — she cried ; 

44 Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 
Low lies the heart that swell' d with honest pride. 

44 A weeping country joins a widow's tear ; 

The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 
The drooping 'arts surround their patron's bier ; 

And grateful science heaves the heart-felt sigh ! 

44 1 saw my sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair freedom's blossoms richly blow : 
But ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 

44 My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name ! 

No ; every muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame, 

! Park near Hob-rood, f St. Anthony's WelL $ St. Anthony's Chapel 



282 BURNS'S POEMS. 

" And I will join a mother's tender cares, 
Thro' future times to make his virtue last ; 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs ! "— 
She said, and vanish' d with the sweeping blast. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 



ENCLOSING THE FOREGOING ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 



Nae heathen name shall I prenx, 

Frae Pindus or Parnassus ; 
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, 

For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three 
Made Homer deep their debtor ; 

But, gi'en the body half an e'e, 
Nine Ferriers wad done better ! 



(Edinburgh) 
beats 



daughters 

eye 
would 



Last day my mind was in a bog, 

Down George's Street I stoited ; tottered 

A creeping cauld prosaic fog cold 

My vera senses doited. stupefied 

Do what I dought to set her free, could 

My saul lay in the mire ; soul 

Ye turn'd a neuk — I saw your e'e — corner, eye 
She took the wing like lire ! 

The mournfu' sang I here enclose, song 

In gratitude I send you ; 
An' [wish an'] pray in rhyme sincere, 

A' gude things may attend you ! good 



burns's POEMS. 283 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD-PRESIDENT 
DUNDAS. 

[Robert Dundas of Arniston, brother of Viscount Melville. "I sent a copy of 
this poem, with my best prose letter, to the son of the great mar, the theme of 
the piece, by the hands of one of the noblest men in God's world— Alexander 
Wood, surgeon— when, behold! his solicitorship took no more notice of my poem 
or of me, than I had been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with his lady's 
name, for a silly new reel. Did the fellow imagine that I looked for any dirty 
gratuity T'—Note by Burns quoted by Allan Cunningham.] 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains ; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye, 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whistling blast and waters' roar 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 
Her doubtful balance ey'd, and sway'd her rod ; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 

Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on poverty his cruel eyes ; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry. 

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, 

Rousing elate in these degenerate times ; 

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way : 

While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong : 

Hark, injur'd Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale, 

And much-wrong'd Misery pours th* unpitied wail ! 



284 burns's TOEMS. 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That wound degenerate ages cannot cure. 



ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER 

THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, Esq., 

BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF 
THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms — 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 

Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow, 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

May lay its beauties low. . 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd, 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom cords 

That nature finest strung ; 
So Isabella's heart was form'd, 

And so that heart was wrung. 

Were it in the poet's power, 

Strong as he shares the grief 
That pierces Isabellas heart, 

To give that heart relief 1 



BURNS'S POEMS. 285 

Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave — 
Can point the brimful grief- worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no with'ring blast ; 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



ON WILLIAM SMELLIE. 

[Printer, Edinburgh— author of The Philosophy of Natural History, and mem- 
ber of the Scottish Antiquarian Society.] 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan* came, 
The old cock'd hat, the gray surtout, the same ; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night ; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear unmatch'd ; 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude, 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 



ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. 

[William Tytler, Esq. of Weodhouselee, had published An Enquiry, Historical 
and Critical, into the Evidence against Mary Queen of Scots.} 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart a name once respected — 
A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despised and neglected. 

Tho* something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, 

$till more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

* A club to which Burns and Smellie belonged. 



286 feURNS'S POEMS. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 
The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 

Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine ; 
Their title's avowed by my country. 

But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem ; 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them? 

But loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 
Who knows how the fashions may alter ? 

The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring us a halter ! 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. 

And ushers the long dreary night ; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 



THE TREE OF LIBERTY. 

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; knew not 

Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fame o't, wdl 

It stands where ance the Bastile stood, oaca 

A prison built by kings, man, 
When Superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man. 



BURtfS'S POEMS. 287 

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, such 

Its virtues a' can tell, man ; above 

It raises man aboon the brute, 

It mak's him ken himsel', man. 
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, 

He's greater than a lord, man, 
An' wi' the beggar shares a mite 

O' a' he can afford, man. 

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth, 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man : 
To gi'e the sweetest blush o' health, 

An' mak' us a' content, man. 
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, eyes 

Mak's high an' low gude friends, man ; 
An' he wha acts the traitor's part, who 

It to perdition sends, man. 

My blessings aye attend the chiel, man 

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man, 
An' staw'd a branch, spite o' the de'il, stole 

Frae yont the western waves, man. from beyond 

Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care, 

An' now she sees wi' pride, man, 
How weel it buds an' blossoms there, 

Its branches spreading wide, man. 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o' Virtue thrive, man ; 
The courtly vermin's banned the tree, 

An' grat to see it thrive, man ; wept 

King Loui' thought to cut it down, 

When it was unco sma', man ; very small 

For this the watchman cracked his crown, 

Cut aff his head an' a', man. off 

A wicked crew syne, on a time, then 

Did tak' a solemn aith, man, oath 

It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

I wat they pledged their faith, man. know 

Awa' they gaed wi' mock parade, went 

Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o' the trade, 

An' wished they'd been at hame, man, lioma 



288 BURNS's POEMS. 

For Freedom, standing by the tree, 

Her sons did loudly ca', man ; 
She sang a sang o' liberty, 

Which pleased them ane an' a', man. one and all 

By her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran — her foes gi'ed chase, ffave 

An' banged the despot weel, man. beat 

Let Britain boast her hardy oak, 

Her poplar an* her pine, man, 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, 

An' o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round an' round, 

An' soon 'twill be agreed, man, 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

'Twixt London an' the Tweed, man. 

Without this tree, alake this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man ; 
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. no 

We labour soon, we labour late, 

To feed the titled knave, man ; 
An' a' the comfort we're to get, 

Is that ayont the grave, man. beyond 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow, 

The warld would live in peace, man ; 
The sword would help to mak' a plough, 

The din o' war wad cease, man. would 

Like brethren in a common cause, 

We'd on each other smile, man ; 
An' equal rights, an' equal laws 

Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat would not 

Sic halesome dainty cheer, man ; wholesome 

I'd gi'e my shoon frae aff my feet, shoes, from 

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
Syne let us pray auld England may then 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man ; 
An' blythe we'll sing, an' hail the day 

That gave us liberty, mar,. 



buhns's POEMS. 289 

LIBERTY- A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled ? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing ! 



TO MR. MAXWELL OF TERRAUGHTY, 

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwell's vet 'ran chief ! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief; 
Inspir'd, I turn'd fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, proof 

Scarce quite half worn. 

This day thou metes three score eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 
(The second sight ye ken is given 

To ilka poet) every 

On thee a tack o' seven times seven lease 

Will yet bestow it. 

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow fellows 

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 
May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, 
Nine miles an hour, 

Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, 

T i , , ' brimstone, 

In brunstane stoure— dust 



290 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



But for thy friends, and they are mony, 
Baith honest men and lassies bonnie, 
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny. 

Bless them and thee ! 

Fareweel auld birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the de'il he daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye, 

For me, shame fa' me, 
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 

While Burns they ca' me ! 



gentle 



old spirited 
fellow 
dare not 

foes 
befall 

next, do not 
call 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK, 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER. 

Ellisland, 21st Oct., 1789. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! P roud 

And are ye hale, and weel, and cantie ? merry 

I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie short jaunt 

Wad bring you to : would 

Lord send ye aye as weel's I want ye, . as well as 

And then ye'll do. 



The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! * 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tauld mysel' by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak' my letter ; 
I lippen'd to the chield in trouth, 

And bade nae better. 



told 



trusted to t 
fellow- 
waited for 



But aiblins honest Master Heron, 
Had at the time some dainty fan one, 
To ware his theologic care on, 

And holy study ; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'n tried the body. 



possibly 

spend 

soula 



Robert Heros, afterwards a well-known author. 



BTJUNS's POEMS. 



291 



But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queans, I fear, I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me I 
And then my fifty pounds a-year 

Will little srain me. 



companion 
exciseman 



Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
"Wha by Castalia's whimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty limbies, 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 

I ha'e a wife and twa wee laddies, 

They maun ha'e brose and brats o' duddies ; 

Ye ken yoursel's my heart right proud is — 

I need na vaunt, 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I ha'e a richer share 

Than mony ithers ; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers ? 



giddy dames 

winding 

leap 



hoys 

must, food, 
clothes 



cut, twist 
■willow- 
wands 



early 

many others 

one 

brothers 



Come, firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair : 
Wha does the utmost that he can, 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 



seed-hemp 
won 



sometimes, 
more 



children 



My compliments to sister Beckie ; 
And eke the same to honest Luckis> 



292 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



I wat she is an honest chuckle, 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for aye, 

Eorert Burns. 



know 



good old 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 

[An Ayrshire gentleman of great wit and humour.] 

Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! fid <*ie string 

Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 

To every fiddling, rhyming billie, fellow 

We never heed, 
But take it like the unbacked filly, 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, less] inffaim 

Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter snarl 

Uphill, down brae, till some mischanter, accident 

Some black bog-hole, 

Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter narm 

We're forced to thoie. bear 

Hale be your heart ! — hale be your fiddle ! 

Lang may your elbock jink an' diddle, . *hX\ y moTe 

To cheer you through the weary widdle wriggle 

O' this wild warl', world 

Until you on a crummock driddle staff, saunter 

A gray hair'd carle. old fellow 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon, poverty 

Heaven send your heart-strings aye in tune, 

An' screw your temper pins aboon, above 

A fifth or mair, more 

The melancholious, lazy croon murmur 

O' cankrie care. peevisb 

May still your life from day to day 
Nae "lente largo" in the play, 
But M allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious How ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



293 



A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey- 
Encore ! Bravo ! 



bold 



A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang, 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand waled curse keep hard in chase, 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fireside discords jar a base 

To a 1 their parts ! 

But come, your hand, my careless brither, 
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither — 
An' that there is I've little swither 

About the matter — 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither ; 

I'se ne'er bid better. 

We've faults an' failings— granted clearly, 
We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly, 

For our grand fa' ; 
But still, but still, I like them dearly — 

God bless them a' ! 



gad-flies, 
sting 



chosen 
miserly 
poverty 



other 
doubt 

cheek by jole 
expect 



blame, 
entirely 



Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 
The witching curs'd delicious blinkers 

Ha'e put me hyte, 
An' gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 

Wi' girnin' spite. 

But by yon moon !— an' that's high swearin'- 
An' every star within my hearin' ! 
An' by her een wha was a dear ane t 

I'll ne'er forget ; 
I hope to gi'e the jads a clearhV 

In fair play yet, 



sprightly 
girls 
eyes 
mad 
made, wet, 



eyes, one 



294 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 

I'll seek my pursie whare I tent it, lost 

Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cantrip hour, witching 

By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 

Then, vive V amour ! 

Faites mes baissemains respectueuses. 

To sentimental sister Susie, 

An' honest Lucky ; no to roose you, praise 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple fate allows ye such: 

To grace your blood. 

Nae mair at present can I measure, no more 

An' trowth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure ; indeed, no 

But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 
To call at Park. 

Kobert Burns. 
Mossgiel, 30th October, 1786. 



TO CLAKINDA, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING-GLASSES. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose, of Edinburgh, to whom Burns addressed a series of bril* 
liant prose letters.] 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses ; 
Clarinda take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses. 

And fill them high with generous juice, i 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

"The whole of human kind!" 

44 To those who love us !" — second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us !-— 

A third—" To thee and me, love !" 



BURNS'S POEMS. 295 



TO CLARINDA, ON HIS LEAVING EDINBURGH* 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary pole 

So marks his latest sun. 

To what dark cave of frozen night 

Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 
Deprived of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part — but, by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 

Has blest my glorious day ; 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray ? 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhyme ; 

Where words ne'er cross' d the muse's heckles,* 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles ; limped 

A land that prose did never view it, 

Except when drunk he stacher't thro' it ; staggered 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, chimney 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 

I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, Confer 

I hear it — for in vain I leuk. look 

The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 

Enhusked by a fog infernal : 

Here, for my wanton rhyming raptures, 

I sit and count my sins by chapters ; 

For life and spunk like ither Christians, spirtt» other 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

* An instrument for dressing flax. 



296 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 

Wi' nae kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes.* 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowie she saunters down Nithside, sad 

And aye a westlin' leuk she throws, westward 

While tears hap o'er her auld brown nose ! cover 

Was it for this, wi' canny care, 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire ? bore 

At howes or hillocks never stumbled, hollows 

And late or early never grumbled ? 

Oh, had I power like inclination, 

I'd heeze thee up a constellation, raise 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ; leap 

Or turn the pole like any arrow ; 

Or, when auld Phoebus bids good-morrow, 

Down the zodiac urge the race, 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 

For I could lay my bread and kail tooth 

He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. salt 

Wi 1 a' this care and a' this grief. 

And sma', sma' prospect o' relief, small 

And nought but peat-reek i' my head, 

How can I write what ye can read ? 

Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 

Yell find me in a better tune ; 

But till we meet and weet our whistle, wet, throat 

Tak' this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Buens. 



WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMITAGE, 

ON THE BANKS OF NITH. 

[First Copy."] 

[The first of these sets of verses was written in June, and the second in Decern* 
ber, 1788. Friar's Carse, near Ellisland, was the seat of the poet's friend, Captain 
Eiddel of GlenriddeL] 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 
* His mare. 



BURNS's POEMS. 297 

Life is but a day at most, 

Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 

Day, how rapid in its flight — 

Day, how few must see the night ; 

Hope not sunshine every hour, 

Fear not clouds will always lower. 

Happiness is but a name, 

Make content and ease thy aim. 

Ambition is a meteor gleam ; 

Fame a restless idle dream : 

Pleasures, insects on the wing 

Hound Peace, the tenderest flower in spring ; 

Those that sip the dew alone, 

Make the butterflies thy own ; 

Those that would the bloom devour, 

Crush the locusts — save the flower. 

For the future be prepar'd, 

Guard wherever thou canst guard ; 

But thy utmost duly done, 

Welcome what thou canst not shun. 

Follies past, give thou to air, 

Make their consequence thy care : 

Keep the name of man in mind, 

And dishonour not thy kind. 

Reverence with lowly heart, 

Him whose wondrous work thou art ; 

Keep his goodness still in view, 

Thy trust — and thy example, too. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadsman on Nithside. 



[Second copy.'] 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 



298 BURNS'S POEMS. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 

Beneath thy morning star advance, 

Pleasure with her siren air 

May delude the thoughtless pair ; 

Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup, 

Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 

Life's meridian flaming nigh, 

Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 

Life's proud summits would'st thou scale? 

Check thy climbing step, elate, 

Evils lurk in felon wait : 

Dangers, eagle-pinion'd, bold, 

Soar around each cliffy hold, 

While cheerful peace, with linnet song, 

Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 

Beck'ning thee to long repose ; 

As life itself becomes disease, 

Seek the chimney-nook of ease ; 

There ruminate with sober thought, 

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought ; 

And teach the sportive younkers round, youngsters 

Saws of experience, sage and sound. 

Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 

The grand criterion of his fate, 

Is not — art thou high or low ? 

Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 

Wast thou cottager or king ? 

Peer or peasant ? — no such thing ! 

Did many talents gild thy span ? 

Or frugal nature grudge thee one ? 

Tell them, and press it on their mind, 

As thou thyself must shortly find, 

The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 

To virtue or to vice is giv'n. 

Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 

There solid self- enjoyment lies ; 

That foolish, selfish, faithless ways 

Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus r^gn'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 



299 



Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night where dawn shall never break. 
Till future life, future no more, 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heav'n be thy guide ! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



EXTEMPOEE TO CAPTAIN EIDDEL OF 
GLENBIDDEL, 

ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 

Your news and review, Sir, I've read through and 
through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming ; 
The papers are barren of home news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends, the reviewers, those chippers and hewers, 

Are judges of mortar and stone, Sir ; 
But of meet or unmeet, in & fabric complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none, Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodness 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet ; 
Would to God I had one like a beam of the sun, 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it ! 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa', 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye press children 

To school in bands thegither, 
O tread ye lightly on his grass, — 

Perhaps he was your father, 



300 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



ON CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THROUGH SCOTLAND. 



COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

[Francis Grose, author of the Antiquities of England, Ireland, and Scotland, 
met with Burns at Captain Riddel's mansion at Friar's Carse. He was fond of 
the good things of this life, and had consequently become very corpulent] 



Hear, land o' Cakes, an' brither Scots, 
Frae MaidenMrk* to Johnny Groat's ; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes, 

An', faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, foggel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright, 

That's he, mark weel — 
An' wow ! he has an unco slight 

0' cauk an' keel. 

By some auld houlet haunted biggin', 
Or kirk deserted by its riggin', 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' de'ils, they say, Lord save's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art. 



brother 



warn, 
observe 
fellow 

print 



plump fellow 



great clever- 
ness 

chalk, red 
crayon 

owl, building 
roof 

fearful 



Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 

Ye gipsy gang that deal in glamour, 

An' you deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks an' witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 

Ye midnight bitches. 



each, 
chamber 
witchcraft 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred, told, soldier 

An' ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; would, fallen 

But now he's quat the spurtle blade, q sword' 

An' dog-skin wallet, 
An' ta'en the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

* Maidenkirk— an inversion of Kirkmaiden— in Wigtonshire, the most 
southerly parish in Scotland. John O'Groat's is the most northerly dwelling in 
Scotland. 



BURNS'S TOEMS. 



30J 



He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets, 
Rusty aim caps an' jinglin' jackets, 
Wad Laud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid ; 
An' parritch pats, an' auld saut backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder ; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool an' fender ; 
That which distinguished the gender 

0' Balaam's ass ; 
A broomstick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



plenty 

iron 

keep, shoe- 
nails 

twelvemonth 
good 

porridge 
pots, salt 
boxes 



shovel 



well 



Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's philabeg ; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig, 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang kail gully. 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee an' fun has he, 
Then sit him down, an' twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
An' port, Oh port ! shine thou a wee, 

An' then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the pow'rs o' verse an' prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chiel, oh Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, shame fa' thee. 



besides, 
quick 
kilt 
throat 



clasp knife 
large knife 

would 
much 



good 

little 



fellow 
sore miscalJ 



TO MR. M'ADAM, 

OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN. 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud ; 
44 See wha tak's notice o' the bard!" 

I lap an' cried fu' loud. 



leapt 



302 



BUKXS'S POEMS. 



Slow de'il-ma'-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million ; 

111 cock my nose aboon them a' — 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! 

'Twas noble, Sir ; 'twas like yoursel', 
To grant your high protection ; 

A great man's smile, ye ken fu' well, 
Is aye a blest infection. 

Tho' by his* banes who in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 

On my ain legs thro' dirt an' dub, 
I independent stand aye. 

An' when those legs to guid, warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear me ; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
An' barley scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

0' many flow'ry simmers ! 
An' bless your bonnie lasses baith — 

I'm tauld they're loosome kimmers ! 

An' God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
An' may he wear an auld man's beard 

A credit to his country. 



devil may 

above 
praised 



Alexander 
own 



broth 
cannot 
-wall, leek 
cake 



summeis 
both 

told, love- 
some girls 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH. 

[Written at Selkirk, May, 17S7, in the course of the poet's southern tour. 
Creech was the poet's Edinburgh publisher.] 

Auld chuckie Reekie's f sair distrest, 60re 

Down droops her ance weel burnish'd crest, 

Xae joy her bonnie buskit nest drest 

Can yield ava, at all 

Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa' ! 



Mr. 



* Diogenes. 



t Edinburgh. 



BUENS 7 S POEMS. 



303 



Oh Willie was a witty wight, 
An' had o' things an unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie aye he keepit tight, 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright — 

Willie's awa' ! 



fellow 

great skill 

kept 

neat, .cood- 
lookiug 
dress 



The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd ; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd — 

Willie's awa' ! 



boldest 
no more 

spirit, gold 



Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, an' fools, 
Frae colleges an' boarding schools, 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw ; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa' ! 



simpletons, 
sluts, half- 
wits 

(fungi) 

wood 

dust 



The brethren o' the Commerce Chaumer* 
May mourn their loss wi' doolfu' clamour | 
He was a dictionar an' grammar 

Amang them a' ; 
I fear they'll now mak' mony a stammer- 
Willie's awa' ! 



doleful 



Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers an' poets pour, 
An' toothy critics by the score, 

In bloody raw ! 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa' ! 



row 
company 



Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 

Tytler's an' Greenfield's modest grace ; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace such 

As Kome ne'er saw ; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, must, other 

Willie's awa' 1 
♦The Chamber of Commerce at Edinburgh, of which Creech was Secretary. 



304 



BURNS's POEMS. 



Poor Burns — e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar'd frae its minnie an' the cleckin' 

By hoodie- craw ; 
Grief's gi'en his heart an unco kickin', 

Willie's awa' ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd girnin' blellum, 
An' Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him ; 
An' self- conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa' ! 



cannot 

chirps 
mother, 
brood 
hooded-crow 

awful 

mouthed, 
grinning, 
idle talker 

scape- grace 
finely, attack 



Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
An' Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
An' Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw ; 
But every joy an' pleasure's fled — 

Willie's awa' ! 



blow 



May I be slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach ; 
An' lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa' ! 



stretched 



May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked man bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem, 

Fleet wing awa' ! 



handle 
roughly 

head 
cheerful 



ON MR. BURTON. 

Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, 

A buck, a beau, or Dem my eyes! 

Who in his life did little good, 

And whose last words were, Dem my blood! 



BURNS'S POEMS. 305 

TO THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE HOUSE. 

[Mrs. Scott of Wauchope, in Roxburghshire, had addressed the following lines 
to Burns:— 

My cantie, witty, rhyming ploughman, 

I hafflins doubt it is na' true man, 

That ye between the stilts was bred, 

"VVi' ploughmen schooled, wi' ploughmen fed; 

I doubt it sair, ye've drawn your knowledge 

Either frae grammar-school or college. 

Guid troth, your soul and body baith 

War better fed, I'd gi'e my aith, 

Than theirs who sup sour milk and parritch, 

And bumrnil through the single Carritch. 

Whaever heard the ploughman speak, 

Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? 

He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 

As get a single line of Virgil. 

And then sae slee ye crack your jokes 

0' Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox: 

Our great men a' sae weel descrive, 

And how to gar the nation thrive, 

Ane maist wad swear ye dwalt among them, 

And as ye saw them sae ye sang them. 

But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 

Ye are a funny blade, I swear ; 

And though the cauld I ill can bide, 

Yet twenty miles and mair I'd ride 

O'er moss and moor, and never grumble, 

Though my auld yad should gi'e a stumble, 

To crack a winter night wi' thee, 

And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 

Oh gif I kenn'd but where ye baide, 

I'd send to you a marled plaid ; 

'Twad haud your shouthers warm and braw, 

And douce at kirk or market shaw; 

Fra' south as weel as north my lad, 

A' honest Scotsmen lo'e the maud.] 

I mind it weel in early date, 

When 1 was beardless, young, and blate, bashful 

And first could thresh the barn ; 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh ; hold, team 

And tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, fatigued, sore 

Yet unco proud to learn ; very 

"When first amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn rest » e^ 11 

Could rank my rig and lass, 

Still shearing, and clearing, 

The tither stooked raw, other, row 

Wi' claivers, and haivers, ^SL— 

itt • .it i nonsense 

Wearmg the day awa . 

E'en then a wish, I mind its pow'r — 
A wish that to my latest hour 



306 



BURNS'S POEMS* 



Shall strongly heave my breast — 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough burr-thissle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
And spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise, 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o 7 sang 

In formless jumble, right and wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain ; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
My partner in the merry core, 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up her jingle, 
Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle : 
I fired, inspired, 

At every kindling keek, 
But bashing and dashing, 
I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 
And we to share in common : 
The gust o 7 joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your mither : 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye 're wae men, ye're nae men 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 



book 

Scotch 
thistle 
barley- 



harvest 
company 

pleasant 

sly eyes 
made 

glance 



each good 
fellow 



soul 



fools 
mother 



poor, no 



each, fellow 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



307 



Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Fareweel then, lang heal then, 

And plenty be your fa', 
May losses, and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 



chequered 
worn 

it would 
proud, cover- 
ing 

sober, back 
leapt 



befall you 
inner door 



ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 

[Ruisseaux— French for streams, Scottice Burns.] 



Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 



no more 
cold 



ill natured 



To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush't him ; 
For sune as chance or fate had hush't 'em, 

Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lash't 'em, 

An' thought it sport. 

Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 
An' counted was baith wight an' stark, 
Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak' a man ; 
But tell him, he was learned an' dark, 

Ye roos'd him than ! 



troubled 



country worfc 
athletic, 
strong 



ready with 
the pen 

praised 



^ ^ 



■ 



308 BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE CALF. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN, 

On his Text, Malachi iv. 2,— "And they shall go forth, and grow up like 
Calves of the stall." 

Eight, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though Heretics may laugh ; 
For instance, there's yoursel' just now, 

God knows, an unco calf! great 

An' should some patron be so kind, 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
1 doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find, 

Ye're still as great a stirk. 7™** Dul ' 

But, if the lover's raptured hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot ! 

Tho' when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-an'-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 

An' in your lug, most reverend James, ear 

To hear you roar an' rowte, 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the nowte. cattle 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

" Here lies a famous bullock ! " 



TO MR. MITCHELL, 

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the Poet, tried an' leal, loyal 

Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal : 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



309 



Alake, alake, the meikle de'il great d evii 

Wi' a' his witches with all 

Are at it, skelpin' jig an' reel, jumping 
In my poor pouches ! 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it, would 

That one pound one I sairly want it ; sorely 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, servant maid 

It would be kind ; 

An' while my heart wi' life-blood dunted, throbbed 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning go 

To see the new come laden, groaning, 

Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin pathway 

To thee an' thine ; 
Domestic peace an' comforts crowning 

The hail design. whole 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
An' by fell death was nearly nicket ; 
Grim loon ! he got me by the fecket, 

An' sair me sheuk ; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket, 

An' turn'd a neuk. 



troubled 
caught 
fellow, waist- 
coat 
sore, shook 

good, leapt 



But by that health, I've got a share o't, 
An' by that life, I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale an' weel I'll tak' a care o't, 

A tentier way ; 
Then farewell folly, hide an' hair o't, 

For ance an' aye ! 



more 

health, wel- 
fare 
more careful 



TO GENERAL DUMOURIER, 

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. 



[The victorious General Dumourier left the army of the French Republic, and 
passed over to the enemies he had lately defeated.] 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier, 



310 BURNS'S P6EMS. 

How does Dampiere do ? 

Ay, and Bournonville too ? 

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier ? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier ; 

I will fight France with you, 

I will take my chance with you ; 

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ; 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt — Dumourier. 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE. 

[Erected by Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree, in Lis grounds.) 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd ; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere, 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf, 
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief: 
For lack o r thee I've lost my lass, 
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass ; 
I see the children of affliction 
Unaided, through thy curs'd restriction. 
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 
Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 



BXJENS'S POEMS. 311 

And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much loved shore, 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B., Kyle. 



TO A KISS. 

Humid seal of soft affections, 
Tend'rest pledge of future bliss, 

Dearest tie of young connections, 
Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 

Speaking silence, dumb confession, 
Passion's birth, and infants' play, 

Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, 
Glowing dawn of brighter day. 

Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action, 

When Hng'ring lips no more must join ; 

What words can ever speak affection 
So thrilling and sincere as thine I 



SONNET 



ON THE DEATH OF CAPTAIN RIDDEL OF GLENRIDDEL, 
APRIL, 1794 * 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 
Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul : 
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 
roar. 

* Burns also inscribed the following lines on the window of a grotto in Captain 
Riddel's grounds:— 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth? 
This ivied cot revere. 



i 



312 BURNS'S POEMS. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend ! 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where 
Kiddel lies ! 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 

And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier ; 

The Man of Worth, who has not left his peer, 
Is in his rt narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



IMPROMPTU 

ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY. 

Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd — 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe ? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know ; 
Kight's horrid car drags, dreary slow ; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 

u Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil, 

To counterbalance all this evil ; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift shall so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me." 

" 'Tis done !" says Jove, so ends my story, 

And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 






BURNS'S POEMS. 313 

SONISTET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY 
OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A 
MORNING WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart. 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, 
The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll share. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR 

LOCH-NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods, 

The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where thro' a shapeless beach, his stream resounds, 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep-recoiling surges foam below, 

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends^ 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends. 

Dim seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs, 

The hoary cavern, wide surrounding, low'rs ; 

Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 

And still below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



814 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



THE FIVE CAELINES. 

[At the general election in 1790, the representation of the Dumfries and Gallo- 
way district of boroughs was contested by Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall, 
a Tory, and Captain Patrick Miller, younger of Dalswinton, a Whig. Captain 
Miller was the successful candidate.] 



There were five carlines in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

To bring them tidings hame. 

Nor only bring them tidings hame, 

But do their errands there, 
An' aiblins gowd an' honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' Nith, 

A dame wi' pride eneugh, 
An' Marjory o' the Monylochs, 

A carline auld an' teugh. 

An' blinkin' Bess o' Annandale, 
That dwelt near Solwayside, 

An' whisky Jean, that took her gill, 
In Galloway sae wide. 

An' Black Joan, frae Crichton Peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin — 
Five wighter carlines warna foun' 

The south countra within. 



old ttomen 



possibly 
gold, both 



(Dumfries) 

(Lochmaben) 
tough 

(Annan) 



(Kirkcud- 
bright) 



(Sanquhar) 

handsomer, 
were not 



To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
An' mony a knight, an' mony a laird, 

Their errand fain would gae. 

O mony a knight an' mony a laird, 
This errand fain would gae ; 

But nae ane could their fancy please, 
Or ne'er a ane but twae. 



go 



no one 
two 



The first he was a belted knight,* 
Bred o' a border clan, 



* Sir J. Johnstone, 



BUKNS'S POEMS. 



315 



An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
Might nae man him withstand 

An' he wad do their errands weel, 

An' meikle he wad say, 
An' ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth,* 
An' spak' wi' modest grace, 

An* he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, 
Nor meikle speech pretend, 

But he wad hecht an honest heart, 
Wad ne'er desert a friend. 



would 



well 
much 
each one 
good 

soldier 



would not 
promise 
much 
would 



Now, wham to choose, an' wham refuse, 

At strife thir carlines fell ; 
For some had gentle folks to please, 

An' some wad please themsel'. 

Then out spak' mim-mou'd Meg o' Nith, 

An' she spak' up wi' pride, 
An' she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 

For the auld gudeman o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a pin ; 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 
And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 

That she wad vote the border knight, 
Though she should vote her lane. 

For far afF fowls ha'e feathers fair, 
An' fools o' change are fain ; 

But I ha'e tried the border knight, 
An' I'll try him yet again. 



whom 
these 



prim- 
mouthed 



soldier 



(the king) 
did not 

(Prince of 
Wales) 



oath 
alone 
hay© 



* Captain MlLteft 



316 



fcURNS's POEMS. 



Says black Joan frae Cricliton Peel, 

A carline stoor an' grim, 
The auld gudeman, an' the young gudeman, 

For me may sink or swim ; 

For fools will freat o' right or wrang, 
"While knaves laugh them to scorn ; 

But the sodger's friends ha'e blawn the best, 
So he shall bear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak' owre her drink, 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a', 
The auld gudeman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa' ; 

An' mony a friend that kiss'd his cup, 

Is now a fremit wight : 
But it's ne'er be said o' whisky Jean — 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

An' wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet gray, 

Her auld Scots bluid was true ; 

There's some great folks set light by me— 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will send to Lon'on town 

Wham I like best at hame. 

Sae how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
God grant the king an' ilka man 

May look weel to himsel'. 



austere 



talk super* 
stitiously 



gossips all 
wall 

estranged 



blood 



whom 



no 
every 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. 

Air, — Up and waur tliem a\ 
[This refers to the contest celebrated in the foregoing ballad.} 
The laddies bv the banks o* Kith, 



Wad trust his Grace wi' a') Jamie, 



would 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



317 



But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king 
Turn tail an' rin awa', Jamie. 

Up an' waur them a', Jamie, 

Up an' waur them a' ; 
The Johnstons ha'e the guidin' o't, 

Ye turncoat whigs, awa'. 

The day he stude his country's friend, 
Or gi'ed her faes a claw, Jamie, 

Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 

That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 

But wha is he, his country's boast ? 

Like him there is na twa, Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 

To end the wark, here's Whistlebirck,* 
Lang may his whistle blaw, Jamie ; 

An' Maxwell true o' sterling blue, 
An' we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. 



serve 
run away 

worst 
have, of it 

stood 

gave, foes 
from poor, 
won 



who 

not two 

lad tends 

cows 



work 
blow 



BALLADS ON MR. HERON'S ELECTIONS. 

[ballad first.] 

[In January, 1795, Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree, a zealous Whig, contested the 
Stewartry of Kirkcudbright with Gordon of Balmaghie, and gained his election. 
The third ballad refers to the general election of 1796, when Mr. Heron contested 
the Stewartry with the Hon. Montgomery Stewart. He gained, but was un- 
seated by a committee.] 

Whom will ye send to London town, . 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ?f 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ; 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 



* Mr. Birtwhistle, alluded to in the second of the Hercn balladi. 
f To have that befall him. 



818 



BURKS' S POEMS. 



Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

An' wha is't never saw Jhat ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
An' has a doubt of a' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, and a' that. 

Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
An' weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a that. 



gata 



ehow 



But why should we to nobles jouk ? 

An' is't against the law that ? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that ; 
But we'll ha'e ane frae 'mang oursel's, 
A man we ken, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought and sold 
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that, 
Our representative to be, 
For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as he, 
They would be blest that saw thati 



stoop 

contemptible 
fellow 



loon 



from among 



nags, cattlfl 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



319 



THE ELECTION". 
[ballad second.] 

Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

An* oh, how the heroes will swear ! 
An' there will be Murray commander, 

An' Gordon the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each other, 

Sae knit in alliance and sin. 

An' there will be black-lippit Johnnie,* 

The tongue o' the trump to them a' ; 
An* he get na hell for his haddin', 

The de'il gets nae justice ava' ; 
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'll e'en let the subject alane.f 

An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff, 

Dame justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Busby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
An' there will be Cardoness, if Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the devil the prey will despise. 

An* there will be Douglases doughty,§ 

IsTow christ'ning towns far and near ; 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the o' a peer ; 

An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous, 

"\ Vhose honour is proof to the storm, 
To save them frae stark reprobation, 

He lent them his name to the firm. 



lipped 



residence 

at all 
youth of 
spirit 
bone 



bravely 



* John Busby of Tinwald Downs. 

f A brother of Mr, Busby, whose fortune originated in some connection with 
the Ayr Bank. 

t Maxwell of Cardoness. 

§ Mr. Douglas of Carlingwark gave the name of Castle Douglas to a village 
in his neighbpurhood-now a populous town. 



I 



320 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body, e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An' 'twere na the cost o' the rape. 
An' where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 



will not 



money 
rope 



fellow 



An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 

Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true ; 
An' there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 
An' there will be folk frae St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note, 
The de'il ane but honours them highly — 

The de'il ane will gi'e them his vote ! 



good 



devil a one 



An' there will be wealthy young Richard, 

Dame fortune should hing by the neck ; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His merit had won him respect : 
An' there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs yet men o' the first, 
An' there will be Collieston's whiskers, 

And Quintin, o' lads not the worst. 



An' there will be stamp-office Johnnie,* 

Tak' tent how ye purchase a dram ; 
An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 

An' there will be gleg Colonel Tarn ; 
An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 

Whose honour was ever his law, 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 

His worth might be sample for a'. 



smart 



An' can we forget the auld major, 
Wha'll ne'er be forgot in the Greys, 

Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 
Him only 'tis justice to praise. 



! The poet's friend, John Syme* 



bursts's POEMS. 821 

An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 

An' also Barskimming's guid knight, good 

An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 

An' there frae the Niddisdale borders, 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Walie, tough 

That griens for the fishes and loaves ; longs 

An' there will be Logan MacDouall, 

Sculdudd'ry and he will be there, 
An' also the wild Scot of Galloway, 

Sodgerin' gunpowder Blair. soldiering 

Then hey the chaste interest o' Broughton, 

An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 
It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king ; 
An' hey for the sanctified M y, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
He founder'd his horse among harlots, 

But gi'ed the auld naig to the Lord. old nag 



[ballad third.] 

AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

Air, — Buy broom besoms, 

Wha will buy my troggin,* 

Fine election ware ; 
Broken trade o' Broughton, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin, 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



* Dealers in miscellaneous articles who used to travel in Scotland were called 
troggers, and their wares " troggin." 

L 



322 BURNS S POEMS. 

There's a noble Earl's 

Fame an' high renown,* 
For an auld sang — ■ 

It's thought the gudes were stown. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the worth o' Br ought on f 

In a needle's e'e ; eye 

Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie.J lost 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 

Might a prince adorn : 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald— 

So was never worn.§ 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's the stuff an' lining, 

O' Cardoness's head ; 
Fine for a sodger soldier 

A' the wale o' lead. choice 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's a little wadset 

Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin shop 

Quenching holy drouth. . thirst 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's armorial bearings, 

Frae the manse o' Urr ; 
The crest, an' auld crab apple || 

Botten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, hawk 

Poun:ing poor Redcastle, 

Spru*7lin as a taed. toad 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

* The Earl of Galloway. f Mr. Murray of Broughton. 

t Gordon of Balmaghie, one of the candidates. 

§ A hitter allusion to Mr. Bushy. 

I Burns here alludes to the Rev. Mr. Muirhead, minister of Urr in Galloway. 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 

Here's the worth an' wisdom 

Collieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 

They had been nearly lost. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here is Murray's fragments 
0' the ten commands ; 

Gifted by black Jock 

To get them affhis hands. 
Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 
If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman — 
He'll buy a' the pack. 
Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



S23 



Satan's 



THE WHISTLE. 

rAsthe authentic prose history of the " Whistle" is curious, I shall here give it 
In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James 
VI., there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great 
prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, 
which at the commencement of the orgies he laid on the table, and whoever was 
the last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the 
bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced 
credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, 
Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany; and 
challenged the Scots Bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or 
else of acknowledging their inferiority. After many overthrows on the part of 
the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, 
ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days' and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table, 

"And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill." 
Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to 
Walter Riddel of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's. On Fri- 
day, the 16th of October, 1790, at Friar's-Carse, the whistle was once more con- 
tended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert of Maxwelton; 
Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter 
Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; ana Alex- 
ander Ferguson, Esq. of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir 
Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honours of the held.— 
Burns. The whistle was last in the possession of the son of the victor, the late 
Right Honourable R. C. Ferguson of Craigdarroch, M.P. for the Stewartry uf 
Kirkcudbright.] 



I sing of a whistle, a whistle of worth, 
I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North, 



321 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda,* still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
"This whistle's your challenge — to Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more !" 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Eobert, the laird of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Eobert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd, 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw ; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law ; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Eobert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients !" Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Eorie Morej 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Eobert, a soldier, no speech would pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, Toss down the whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee- deep in claret, he'd die, or he'd yield. 

* Sec Ossura'i Carie-thura. f See Johnson's Tour to the Hebrides, 



eurxs's POEMS. 825 

To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care ; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to 

Fame 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day ; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy : 
In the hands of old friendship and kindred so set, 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were 
wet. 

Gay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er ; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a piece had well wore out the night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high ruling Elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end ; 
But who can with fate and quart -bumpers contend? 
Though fate said — a hero shall perish in light ; 
So up rose bright Phoebus — and down fell the knight, 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink: — 
14 Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall 

sink; 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme, 
Come — one bottle more— and have at the sublime ! 



326 



BURXS'S POEMS. 



11 Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay ; 

The field thou hast won by yon bright god of day !" 



LINES ON MEETING WITH BASIL, LORD DAER, 

[Burns was introduced toUord Daer (October 23, 1786) at Catrine, the seat of 
Professor Stewart, by Mr. Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauchliue. Lord Daer was eldest 
son to Dunbar, fourth Earl of Selkirk. He was a nobleman of great promise, 
but was cut off (November, 1794) before it could be realized.] 

This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner' d wi' a Lord. 



I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nae, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum, 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord ! — stand out, my shin, 
A lord — a Peer — an Earl's son ! 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord ! — lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, oh ! for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
.To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r, 

And how he star'd and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks, 
And stumpin' on his ploughman shanks, 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen. 
Except good sense and social glee, 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 



so, clambered 

drunken 
drunk 

chorus 
thirst, slake 

such 



bewildered 
look 

moving stu- 
pidly, bridle 



BTJRNS'S POEMS, 327 

I watch'd the symptoms o'the great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state, 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. more 

Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another ; well as 

Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



MONODY 

OK A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

[Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee-park.] 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd, 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glisten' d : 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tried, 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen' d ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await, 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd ; 

How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, graces, and virtues, I call not on you ; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 

We'll search through the garden for eTach silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed ; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approached her but rued the rash 
deed. 



328 BURNS'S POEMS. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay ; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning contempt shall redeem from his 
ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 

What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam ; 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect, 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS* TO MARIA .f 

From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells : 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast, 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in ; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more ; 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 
To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

" Alas ! I feel I am no actor here !" 

'Tis real hangmen real scourges bear ! 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold, 

Tho' twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar ; 

Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms, 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms ; 

1 Williamson, an actor, is here meant, t Mrs. Riddp.l of Woodlee-park. 






BtJRNS'S POEMS. 329 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high, 

And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 

Blest Highland bonnet ! once my proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press, 

I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war ; 

I see her face the first of Ireland's sons,* 

And even out- Irish his Hibernian bronze ; 

The crafty colonel f leaves the tartaned lines 

For other wars, where he a hero shines ; 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred, 

"Who owns a Busby's heart without the head, 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That veni, vidi, vici, is his way ; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks ; 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate : 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on, 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger, 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger ; 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine, 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 

And even th' abuse of poesy abused ; 

Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd ? ) 

A Workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 
And vermin' d Gipsies litter' d heretofore. 
Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants pour ; 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure ? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 
Thou know'st the virtues cannot hate thee worse; 
The vices also, must they club their curse ? 

* Gillespie. t Colonel M'Doval of Logan. 









330 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 

Maria, send me too thy griefs and cares ; 

In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 

As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 

Who on my fair one satire's vengeance hurls ? 

Who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette, 

A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 

Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 

And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 

Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the war with all of woman born I 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that decyphering defy, 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all reply. 



DELIA/ 



Fair the face of orient day, 

Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 

More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 

Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 
But, Delia, more delightful still, 

Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flow'r enamoured busy bee 

The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 

To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip. 

* This poem first appeared in the Star newspaper, May, 1789. Bums for some 
time after received the Sta - gratuitously from the publisher. As it did not come 
regularly, however, he sent the publisher the following lines :— 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 

We poor sons of metre 
Are often neglekit, ye ken . 

For instance, your sheet, man, 
(Though glad I'm to see't man), 
I get it no ae day in ten.— R. B. 






BURNS'S POEMS. 331 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no fragrant insect, rove ; 
Oh, let me steal one limpid kiss, 

For, oh ! my soul is parched with love. 



SKETCH— NEW YEAR'S DAY, 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Mrs. Dunlop became acquainted with Burns when his poems were published 
at Kilmarnock, and continued ever after his steady friend.] 

This day, Time winds th* exhausted chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again ; 
I see the old, bald pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine, 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer ; 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one moment less. 

Will you (the Major's * with the hounds, 

The happy tenants share his rounds ; 

Coila's fair Each el's f care to-day, 

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray) 

From housewife cares a minute borrow — 

— That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— 

And join with me a moralizing, 

This day's propitious to be wise in ? 

First, what did yesternight deliver ? 

" Another year is gone for ever." 

And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 

"The passing moment's all we rest on!" 

Rest on — for what ? what do we here ? 

Or why regard the passing year ? 

Will time amus'd with proverb'd lore, 

Add to our date one minute more ? 

A few days may — a few years must — 

Repose us in the silent dust. 

* Afterwards General Dunlop of Dunlop. 

T Rachel, a daughter of Mrs. Dunlop, was making a sketch of Coila. 



332 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Then is it wise to damp our bliss? 

Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 

The voice of Nature loudly cries, 

And many a message from the skies, 

That something in us never dies : 

That on this frail, uncertain state, 

Hang matters of eternal weight : 

That future life in worlds unknown 

Must take its hue from this alone ; 

"Whether as heavenly glory bright, 

Or dark as misery's woful night. 

Since, then, my konour'd, first of friends, 

On this poor being all depends, 

Let us th' important now employ, 

And live as those who never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd, 

Witness that filial circle round, 

(A sight, life's sorrows to repulse, 

A sight, pale envy to convulse), 

Others now claim your chief regard ; 

Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



PROLOGUE, 



SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW-YEAR'S-DA? 
EVENING (1790). 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: 

Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam ? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser, too, — he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question ; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — " think ! " 



BURNS'S POEMS. 333 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flushed with hope and 

spirit, 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say, 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ; 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle ; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing, 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important Now ! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, 
With grateful pride we own your many favours ; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



PROLOGUE 

for mr. Sutherland's benefit night, Dumfries. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 

How this new play and that new sang is comin' ? 

Why is outlandish. stuff sae meikle courted? so much 

Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported ? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, no 

Will try to gi'e us sangs and plays at hame ? 

For comedy abroad he needna toil, need not 

A fool and knave are plants of every soil ; 

Nor need he hunt as far as Borne and Greece 

To gather matter for a serious piece ; 

There's themes enough in Caledonian story, 

Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 



334 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ? 

Where are the muses fled that could produce 

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ; 

How here, even here, he first unskeath'd the sword, 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after inony a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 

Oh for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene, 

To draw the lovely hapless Scottish Queen ! 

Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 

She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman : 

A woman — tho' the phrase may seem uncivil — 

As able and as cruel as the devil ! 

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 

But Douglases were heroes every age : 

And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas followed to the martial strife, 

Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, roll 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye ha'e generous clone, if a' the land 

Would take the muses' servants by the hand ; 

Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them, 

And where ye justly can commend, commend them ; 

And -aiblins when they winna stand the test, perhaps, 

V, ink hard and say the folks ha'e done their best J 

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 

Ye'll soon ha'e poets o' the Scottish nation, 

Will gar fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 

And warsle time, and lay him on his back! wrestle with 

For us and for our stage should any spier, inquire 

" Wha's aught thae ehiels mak's a' this bustle here?" whose are 

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, | he r se fel * 

We have the honour to belong to you ! 

We're your ain banns, e'en guide us as ye like, own children 

But like guid mithers, shore before you strike. good mothers 

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, threaten 

For a' the patronage and meikle kindness great 

We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks : from 

God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but thanks. 



will not 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



335 



WRITTEN 

TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT THE POET A NEWSPAPER, 
AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 

How guessed ye, Sir, what maist I wanted ? most 

This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin', 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks ; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt : 

If Denmark, any body spak' o't ; 

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hinging ; 

How libbet Italy was singin' ; 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin' or takin' aught amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at hame, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him ! 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookin', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin' ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd, 

Or if bare yet were tax'd ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera girls ; 
If that daft buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails ; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser, 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. 
A' this and mair I never heard of, 
And but for you I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu' back your news I send you, 
And pray a' guid things may attend you ! 

Ellisland, Monday morning, 1790. 



groaned, 
yawned 

muddy 
posterior 
thrasher 

contention 



Twelfth 

lease 

hanging 

castrated 



look 



smooth 

thoughtless, 
list 

uneasy 



mad fish 

hussies 

any soberer 
country stal- 
lion 
more 



386 BURNS'S POEMS. 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, 

Monday, 16th April, 1787. 

[Mr. Woods, long a favourite actor in Edinburgh, himself a man of some 
poetical talent, and the friend of Ferguson.] 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim, 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame ; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heav'nly Virtue's glow, 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe. 

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's song : 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar, 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear, 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science — ever nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known : as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, 
Here holds her search by heaven- taught Reason's 

beam ; 
Here history paints with elegance and force, 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakspeare into plan, 
And Harley* rouses all the god in man, 
When well-form' d taste and sparkling wit unite 
With manly lore, or female beauty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace, 
Can only charm us in the second place,) 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear 
As on this night I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
With decency and law beneath his feet ; 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name ; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

* The Man of Feeling, by Mackenzie. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 337 

Oil thou dread Power ! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch' d to shield the honour'd land ! 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ! 
May every son be worthy of his sire ! 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain ! 
Still self-dependent in her native shore, 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



ADDRESS, 



SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE OX HER BENEFIT NIGHT, 
DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes ; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed ; 
And last, my prologue business slily hinted. 
" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 
44 1 know your bent — these are no laughing times : 
Can you — but, Miss, I own I have my fears — 
Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears, 
With laden sighs, and solemn rounded sentence, 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?" 

I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying ? 
I'll laugh, that's poz — nay more, the world shall 

know it ; 
And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery's another word for Grief; 
I also think — so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy 'd. 



338 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye ; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch ! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 
Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove ; 
Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck- 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf ! 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise ; 

And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 



ON PASTORAL POETRY. 

[This poem was found among the papers of Burns, in his own hand-writin^, 
but is suspected by some to he merely a transcript of a poem which had taken 
his fancy.] 

Hail Poesie ! thou Nymph reserved ! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds ha'e swerv'd 

Frae common sense, or sunk ennerv'd 

'Mang heaps o' clavers ; babblings 

An' och ! owre aft thy joes ha'e starv'd, too oft, 

Mid a' thy favours ! lovers 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, 

While loud the trump's heroic clang, 

An' sock or buskin skelp alang dash 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd sang one 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft John Milton thrives ; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



339 



Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Ev'n Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches ? 
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches : 
Squire Pope but busks his skinkling patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit an' lear, 

Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 

Blaw sweetly in its native air 

An' rural grace ; 
An' wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 

A rival place ? 

Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan — 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel sae clever ; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan, 

But thou's for ever ! 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 

In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 

'Nae gowden stream thro' nryrtles twines, 

Where Philomel, 
While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 

Her griefs will tell ! 

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes ; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell j 
Xae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love ; 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



dwarf 



ballads 
dresses, 
sparkling 

hundreds 



learning 

more 

blow 



lad 

forward 
not skulk, 
door 
lad so 



no golden 



daisied 
clothes 
woods, hills 



floods 



BUBNS'g POEMS, 

THE VOWELS, 

A TALE. 

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are plied, 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride ; 

Where ignorance her darkening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thick'ning blows ; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight, 
But, ah ! deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his way, 
And flagrant from the scourge he grunted, ai I 

Reluctant, E stalk' d in ; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne ! 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next the title following close behind, 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign' d. 

The cobweb'd Gothic dome resounded Y! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round, 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 

The wailing minstrel of despairing woe ; 

Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert, 

Might there have learnt new mysteries of his' art; 

So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 

His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 



BTJRNS's POEMS. 341 

LYING AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, THE AUTHOR 
LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

VERSES 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

["The first time Robert heard the spinnet played upon was at the house of Dr. 
Lawrie, minister of Loudoun (about October, 1786). Dr. L. h.id several daughters 
—one of them played; the father and the mother led down the dance ; the rest 
of the sisters, the brother, the poet, and the other guests mixed in it. It was a 
delightful family scene for our poet, then lately introduced to the world. His 
mind was roused to a poetic enthusiasm, arid the stanzas were left in the 
room where he slept."— Gilbert Burns.] 

Oh thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear, 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere ! 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long, be pleased to spare, 
To bless his filial little flock, 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears, 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush — 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand — 

Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven, 
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 

A family in heaven ! 



342 t BURNS'S POEMS. 

TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, 

AS A NEW YEAR'S GIFT, JAN. 1, 1787.* 

Again the silent wheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true ; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you ! 



WKITTEN IN AN ENVELOPE 

ENCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE.f 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo an' ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he south or is he north ? 

Igo an' ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highlan' bodies? 

Igo an' ago, 
An' eaten like a wether haggis ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? gone 

Igo an' ago, 

Or haudin Sarah by the wame, holding 

Iram, coram, dago. ^ vomb 

* Sister of Major Lo^an, to whom the poet addressed an epistle. 
t Bums here imitates an old song entitled Sir John Malcolm. 



BtTRNS's POEMS. 343 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ; 

Igo an' ago, 
As for the de'il, he daurna steer him, dare not stir 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit the enclosed letter, 

Igo an' ago, 
Which "will oblige your humble debtor, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye ha'e auld stanes in store, have old 

Igo an' ago, stoues 

The very stanes that Adam bore, 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo an' ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION, 
Air — Killiecr ankle. 
Lord Advocate.* 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it : . lost 

He gaped for't, he graiped for't, groped 

He fand it was awa', man ; found, away 

But what his common sense came short, 

He eked out wi' law, man. 

Mr. ERSKixE.f 

Collected Harry stood a wee, little 

Then open'd out his arm, man : 

* Mr. Hay Campbell, afterwards Lord President ; he died in 1823. 

t The Hon. Henry Erskine, Dean of the Faculty of Advocates from 17S6 till 
1796, when Mr. Robert Dundas of Arniston, Lord Advocate, ousted him. See 
" The Dean of Faculty, a new ballad." 



344 buhxs's POEMS. 

His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, eye 

An' eyed the gathering storm, man ; 
Like wind-driv'n hail, it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; over 

The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes, so 

Half wauken'd wi' the din, man. -wakened 



FRAGMENT 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite ; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white ; 
How genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustle, 
I care not, not I — let the critics go whistle ! 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story, 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits ; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits ; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, . 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right ; — 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good L — d, what is man? for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks , 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, 
All in all he's a problem must puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neigh- 
bours j 



BURNS'S POEMS. 345 

Mankind are his show box — a friend, would you know him? 

Pull the string, ruling passion the picture will show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular, truth, should have miss'd him ; 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions, 

Mankind is a science defies definitions, 

Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe, 

And think human nature they truly describe : 

Have you found this, or t'other ! there's more in the wind, 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find, 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan, 

In the make of that wonderful creature call'd man, 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 

Nor even two different shades of the same, 

Though like as was ever twin brother to brother, 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 

January 1, 1789. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, do not 

E'en let them die — for that they're born ! 

But, oh ! prodigious to reflect, 

A towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck ! fcwelYcmonili 

O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space fe01le 

What dire events ha'e taken place ! 

Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 

In what a pickle thou has left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head,* lost 

And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ; (his dog) 

The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, fight, sore 
An' our gudewife's wee birdie cocks ; 

The tane is game, a bluidy devil, one, bloody 

But to the hen-birds unco civil ; very 

The tither's something dour o' treadin', other, slow 

But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. dung-heap 

* Charles IIL 






346 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' roupit ; 
For Eighty- eight he wish'd you weel, 
An' gi'ed you a' baith gear an' meal j 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursel's, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you ha'e tint a frien' : 
In Eighty- eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er ha'e to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, ev'n the yirth itself does cry, 
For E'nbrugh wells are grutten dry. 



hoarse, croup 
well 

gave, both, 
money 
coin 
consideration 



wipe, eyes 
lost 



cattle 
lethargic, 

dull 
earth 



wept 



O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, child 

An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! not too old 

Thou beardless boy,* I pray tak' care ! 
Thou now hast got thy daddie'sf chair ; father's 

Nae handcuff'd, muzzled, half-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like himsel' , a full free agent. 
Be sure to follow out the plan 

Nae waur than he did, honest man ! n0 WO rse 

As muckle better as you can. muc h 



ADDKESS OF BEELZEBUB 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND 

SOCIETY. 

[The "Address" was first published in the Edinburgh Magazine for February 
1818, with the following original superscription:— "To the Right Honourable 
the Earl of Breadalbyne, President of the Right Honourable and Honourable 
the Highland Society, which met on the '23d of May last, at the Shakspeare, 
Covent-Garden, to concert ways and means to frustrate the designs of five hun- 
dred Highlanders, who, as the society were informed by Mr. M of 

A s, were so audacious as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords and 

masters, whose property they were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. 
M'Donald of Glengarry to the wilds of Canada, in search of that fantastic thing 
—Liberty."! 



Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ; 



unharmed 



* Prince Regent 



t George IIL 



BURNS 7 S POEMS. 



347 



Lord grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 

Faith, you and A s were right 

To keep the Highland hounds in sight ; 
I doubt na ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the water : 
Then up amang thae lakes and seas 
They'll inak' what rules and laws they please ; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin' ; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected, 
When by such heads and hearts directed — 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 
They and be d — d ! what right ha'e they 
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ? 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gi'e them ? 



no ragged 
deprive old 



not, would 
once, over 
these 



blood 



have 



give 



But hear, my Lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 

Your hand's owre light on them, I fear ; 

Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 

I canna say but they do gaylies ; 

They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

And tirl the hallions to the birses ; 

Yet while they're only poind't and herriet, 

They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 

But smash them ! crash them a' to spails ! 

And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour ; 

Let wark and hunger mak' them sober ! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd ! 



cannot, 
gaily 

uncover, fel- 
lows, 
bristles, 

harried 

shavings 
wretches 
lash 



hussies, at 
all seemly 



348 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



And if the wives and dirty brats 
E'en thigger at your doors and yetts 
FlafFan wi 1 duds and grey wi' beas', 
Friglitin' awa' your deucks and geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler, 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 
And gar the tattered gypsies pack 
Wi 1 a their bastarts on their back ! 
Go on, my Lord ! I lang to meet you, 
And in my house at hame to greet you ; 
Wi 1 common lords ye shanna mingle, 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle, 
At my right han' assigned your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate — 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Almagro and Pizzaro, 
A seat, I'm sure ye're weel deservin't ; 
And till ye come — Your humble servant, 

June 1st, Anno Mimdi, 5790. 



"beg, gates 
fluttering', 
rags 

away, clucks 
watch-dog 

make 



shall not 
inmost nook 



well 



the dea:n t of faculty, 

A NEW BALLAD. 

[This poem was first published in the Reliques of Burns. Hal and Bob were 
the Hon. Henry Erskine and Mr. Robert Dundas of ArnistonJ 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to Scot did carry ; 
And dire the discord Langside saw, 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot, 

Or were more in fury seen, Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job — 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore, 

Among the first was number'd ; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store, 

Commandment tenth rememberd. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil in the fire. 



BURXS'S POEMS. 

Squire Hal besides bad in tbis case 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy ; 
So tbeir worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

% 
As once on Pisgak purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 



349 



OX LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER,* DUMFRIES, 1796. 

My honoured colonel, deep I feel 

Your interest in the poet's weal : 

Ah ! now sma' heart ha'e I to spcel have, climb 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

Oh what a canty warld were it, cheerful 

Would pain and care and sickness spare it ; 
And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve ! 
(And aye a rowth roast beef and claret ; 

Syne, wha wad starve ?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her, 
And in paste gems and frippery deck her ; 
Oh ! flickering, feeble, and unsicker uncertain 

I've found her still 
Aye wavering like the willow-wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

* Colonel of the Gentlemen Volunteers of Dumfries, in which corps Burns 
was a private. 



plenty of 
then, who 

would 



3**7 



BTTRNS'S POEMS. 



Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 

Watches like baudrons by a rattan, cat, rat 

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on soul, clutch 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on— then, salt 

He's afffike fire. 



Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 



mad 
then 



Poor man, the flie, aft bizzes by, 
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sicker treasure ! 

Soon heel's- o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling ' m the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet s tassel. 

But lest you think I am uncivil, 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil ! 

Amen ! Amen ! 



buzzes 
itches 

certain 

topsy-turvy, 

goes 
tongs 
grinning 



quit 
from 



PEG NICHOLSON* 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trode on airn ; iron 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

* A mare which the poet had on loan, and which took ill and died in his 
bands. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 351 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting even the skin. 



Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Teg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair ; 

And much oppressed and bruis'd she was, 
As priest-rid cattle are. — &c, &c. 



TO MY BED. 



Thou bed, in which I first began 
To be that various creature — Alan ! 
And when again the fates decree, 
The place where I must cease to be ; — 
When sickness comes, to whom I fly, 
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye ; — ■ 
When cares surround me, where I weep, 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; — 
When sore with labour, whom I court, 
And to thy downy breast resort ; — 
Where, too, ecstatic joys I find, 
When deigns my Delia to be kind — 
And full of love, in all her charms, 
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms. 
The centre thou— where grief and pain, 
Disease and rest alternate reign. 
Oh, since within thy little space, 
So many various scenes take place ; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
As sages dictate — churchmen preach ; 
And man, convinced by thee alone, 
This great important truth shall own ; — 



I 



352 BURNS'S POEMS. 

" That tkin partitions do divide 
The hounds where good and ill reside ; 
That nought is perfect here below ; 
But bliss still bordering upon woe."* 



ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace — 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted — 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore ; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt ; 
Follies and crimes have stain' d the name, 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, 

From aught that's good exempt. 



IMPROMPTU ON WILLIE STEWART. 

[Sir Walter Scott possesses a tumbler, on which are the following verses, 
written by Burns on the arrival of a friend, Mr. W. Stewart, factor to a gentle- 
man of Nithsdale. The landlady being very wroth at what she considered the 
disfigurement of her glass, a gentleman present appeased her, by paying down 
a shilling, and carried off the relic— Lockhart.] 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart, 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart ; 

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May, 

That's half sae welcome's thou art. so 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 

The bowl we maun renew it ; mus t 

The tappit-hen gae bring her ben, quart mea- 
To welcome Willie Stewart. sure ' g0 ' m 

• In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, 
And, born in bed, in bed we die : 
The near approach a bed may show 
Of human bliss and human woe.— Johnson. 



353 



May foes be Strang, an' friends be slack, 

Ilk action may he rue it ; evcry 

May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. wrongs 



VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 
[with a present of books.] 

Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this trifle send, 
Because thy joy in both would be 

To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heliconean stream ; 
Then take what gold could never buy — 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

INSCRIBED ON A PANE OF GLASS IN HIS HOUSE. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray : 
No wrinkle furrowed by the hand of care, 
Nor ever sorrow add one silver hair ! 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain, 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain! 



TO MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

[with a present of books.] 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer — 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With ev'ry kindliest, best presage 

M 



354 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Of future bliss enrol thy name : 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 
And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— ^ 
These be thy guardian and reward ; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard, 



TO MISS CKUICKSHANKS, 

A VERY YOUNG LADY. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book presented to her by the 
Author. 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 
Blooming in thy early May, 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r, 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ; 
Never Boreas' hoary path, 
Never Eurus' poisonous breath, 
Never baleful stellar lights, 
Taint thee with untimely blights '. 
Never, never reptile thief 
B-iot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor even Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, 
Richly deck thy native stem ; 
'Till some evening, sober, calm, 
Dropping dews and breathing balm, 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And every bird thy requiem sings ; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dying honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 



BUKNS's POEMS. 



855 



A SKETCH * 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 
And still his precious self his dear delight : 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn' d vive la bagatelle, et vive V amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies' love. 
Much specious lore, but little understood ; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell ; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



AN EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION ON BEING 
APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 



Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels ; 

But — what'll ye say ! 
These muvin' things ca'd wives an' weans, 
Wad muve the very hearts o' stanes ! 



dirty- 



moving, 
children 
would move 



THE DISCREET HINT. 

Lass, when your mither is frae hame, 

May I but be sae bauld 
As come to your bower window 

An ? creep in frae the cauld ? 



mother from 
so bold 



cold 



* Intended for a projected work, The Poet's Progress. "The fragment be- 
ginning, ' A little, upright, pert, tart,' etc., I have not shown to any man living, 
till I now send it to you. It forms the posrulata, the axioms, the definition of a 
character, which, if it appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This 
particular part I send you, merely as a sample of my hand at portrait sketch- 
ing."-Letter of Burns to Dugald Stewart. 



356 BURKS'S POEMS. 

As come to your bower window, 

An' when it's cauld an' wat, wet 

Warm me in thy fair bosom, — 

Sweet lass, may I do that ? 

Young man, gin ye should be sae kind, if, so 

When our gudewife's frae hame, good wife 

As come to my bower window, 

Whare I am laid my lane, alone 

To warm thee in my bosom, — 

Tak' tent, I'll tell thee what, take care 

The way to me lies through the kirk : — church 

Young man, do ye hear that ? 



NATURE'S LAW, 

A POEM HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

" Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed."— Pope. 

[Supposed to have been composed soon after the birth of nis twin children, 
and first published in Pickering's edition.] 

Let other heroes boast their scars 

The marks of sturt and strife ; trouble 

An' other poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life : 
Shame fa,' the fun, wi' sword an' gun . befall 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame 

Wha multiplies our number. who 

Great Nature spoke with air benign, 

" Go on, ye human race, 
This lower world I you resign ; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid fire of strong desire 

I've poured it in each bosom ; 
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 

And there, is beauty's blossom ! " 

The hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly bard was he, 
Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains, 

With meikle mirth and glee ; s*uch 



BURNS'S POEMS. 857 

Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large of the flaming current ; 
And, all devout, he never sought 

To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest, 

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro', 
An' sought a correspondent breast, 

To give obedience due : 
Propitious powers screen'd the young flow'r3 

From mildews of abortion ; 
An' lo ! the Bard, a great reward, 

Has got a double portion ! 

Auld, cantie Coil ma}' count the day, old, cheerful 

As annual it returns, 
The third of Libra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire ; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style, 

With more poetic fire. 



a? 



Ye powers of peace, and peaceful song. 

Look down with gracious eyes ; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long 

With multiplying joys ; 
Lang may she stand to prop the land 

The flow'r of ancient nations ; 
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing 

To endless generations ! 



VERSES TO JOHN EANKINE, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET THAT A RUMOUR WAS CURRENT 
REGARDING SOME MISCONDUCT ATTRIBUTED TO HIM. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a' ; small, all 

Some people tell me gin I fa' if, fail 

Ae way or ither, one, other 
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' theeither. together 



358 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



I ha'e been in for't ance or twice, 
An' winna say o'er far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But now a rumour's like to rise 

A whaup's i ! the nest. 



have, onca 
will not 



bird is 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE 
CHILD. 



Thou's welcome, wean ! mischanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 



child, misfor- 
tune befall 

daunt 



father 



An' if thou be what I wad ha'e thee, 
An' tak' the counsel I shall gi'e thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spar'd : 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll e'e thee, 

And think't weel war'd. 

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, and merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failin's, 
'Twill please me mair to hear and see't 

Than stockit mail ins. 



would have 
take, give 



eye 

well spent 

Good 
mother's 



stocked 
farms 



THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 

Cursed be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission ; 
Who has no sixpence but in her possession ; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell ; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell ! 



BTJRNS'S POEMS. 



359 



Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart ; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids and kick the perverse b — ch, 



TO A TAILOB, 



IN ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE WHICH HE HAD SENT 
THE AUTHOR. 



What ails ye now, ye lousy b — h, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh, man ! ha'e mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I did na suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 

What tho' at times, when I grow crouse, 
I gi'e their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-louse, 

And jag-the-flae ! 

King David, o' poetic brief, 
Wrought 'mang the lasses sic mischief 
As filPd his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

An' maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked crimes, and drucken rants, 
I'll gi'e auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs ! the Session says I maun 

Gae fa' upon anither plan 

Than garrin' lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
An' sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 



such 

have, notch 
bold 
not, so 
from father 

bold 
bellies, push 



go 
flea 



such 



ancient 
saints 



drunken 

old 

awful 



must 

go fall, an- 
other 

making, mis- 
behave 

over 

sorely suffer 

midwife 



360 BURNS'S POEMS. 

This leads me on to tell for sport, 
How I did with the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkurn at the inner port 

Cried three times, " Robin ! 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're blamed for jobbinV 

Wi 5 pinch I pat a Sunday's face on, 
An' snooved awa' before the Session — 
I made an open, fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lee ; 
An' syne, Mess John, beyond expression, 
Fell foul o' me. 
****** 



put 

sneaked 
away 

lie 
then 



REMORSE—A FRAGMENT. 



[Occurs in an early commonplace-book of the poet.] 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison, the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 

Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine ;" 

But when to all the evil of misfortune, 

This sting h added — u Blame thy foolish self," 

Or, worser far, the pangs of keen remorse — 

The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 

Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us, 

Nay, more, that very love the cause of ruin ! 

Oh, burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs ; 

And after proper purpose of amendment, 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 

Oh, happy, happy, enviable man! 

Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul I 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



3G1 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

EOKN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 



Sweet floweret, pledge o' meikle love, 
An' ward o' monie a prayer, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair ! 

November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
An' gane, alas ! the sheltering tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
An' wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving shower, 
The bitter frost and snaw ! 

May He, the Friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother-plant, 
An' heal her cruel wounds ! 



much 
many- 
would, not 
so 

halts 

gone 
from 



blow 
snow 

aches 



But late she flourished, rooted fast, 

Fair on the summer morn : 
Now feebly bends she in the blast, 

Unsheltered and forlorn. 

Blessed be thy bloom, thou lovely gem ! 

Unscathed by ruffian hand ; 
An' from thee many a parent stem 

Arise to deck our land. 



ON THE ILLNESS OF A FAVOURITE CHILD. 



Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mair my dearie smiles ; 

Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 
An' a' my hopes beguiles. 



no more 
every 



362 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



The cruel Powers reject the prayer 

I hourly raak' for thee ! 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him die ! 



TO MR.. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[Mr. Kennedy, who then resided at Dumfries Honse, was a warm patron of 
Burns. He took a lively interest in the Kilmarnock edition.] 



Now, Kennedy, if foot or horse 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corse, 

Lord, man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy ; 
An" down the gate, in faith, they're worse, 

An' mair unchancy. 



(market- 
cross) 
would 



But, as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 

An' taste sic gear as Johnnie brews, such stuff 

Till some bit callan bring me news young boy 

That you are there ; 

An' if we dinna haud a bouze, do not hold 

I'se ne'er drink mair. more 



It's no I like to sit an' swallow, 
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow, 
But gi'e me just a true good fallow 

Wi' right ingine ; 
An' spunkie ance to make us mellow, 

An' then we'll shine. 



give, fellow 
genius 
spirit, once 



Now if ye're ane o' warld's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
An' sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship will I troke, 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel, 
Ye hate, as ill's the vera de'il, 



glance 
exchange 



well 
very devil 



BURNS'S POEMS. 363 

The flinty heart that canna feel — cannot 

Come, sir, here's tae you ! to 

Ha'e, there's my haun', I wiss you weel, hand, wish 

An' gude be wi' you. g00 d 

ROBERT BlJRNESS. 

Mossgiel, 3d March, 1786. 



TO THE SAME. 

[The conclusion of a letter.] 

Farewell, dear Mend ! may gude luck hit you, 

An' 'mang her favourites admit you ! 

If e'er Detraction shore to smite you, threaten 

May nane believe him ! 
An' ony de'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord, deceive him ! 



Kilmarnock, August, 1786. 



R. B. 



TO MRS. C- 



ON RECEIVING A WORK OF HANNAH MORE. 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor ! 
Though sweetly female every part — 
Yet such a head, and more the heart, 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She show'd her taste refined and just 

When she selected thee ; 
Yet deviating, own I must 
For so approving me. 

But kind still, I mind still, 

The giver in the gift, 
I'll bless her, and wiss her, wlsh 

A friend above the lift. in heaven 



364 BURNS'S POEMS. 



LINES FOUND AMONG THE POET'S PAPERS. 

There's naethin' like the honest nappy ! nothing, ale 

Whaur 'ill ye e'er see men sae happy, w S o ere wil1 ' 

Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, plump, soft 

'Tween morn an' morn, 

As them wha like to taste the drappie who, a drop 

In glass or horn ? 

I've seen me daezt upon a time ; stupefied 

I scarce could wink or see a sty me ; glimmer 

Just ae hauf mutchkin does me prime, one half 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme, 

As gleg's a whittle. sharp, knifa 



FICKLE FORTUNE.— A FRAGMENT. 

Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, 
She promised fair and performed but ill ; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me, 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act with prudence as far's I'm able, 

But, if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 

["The above was written extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of 
misfortunes, which indeed threatened to undo me altogether. It was just at 
the close of that dreadful period mentioned already (in commonplace-book, 
March, 1784), and though the weather has brightened up a little with me since, 
yet there has always been a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futu- 
rity, which I pretty plainly see will, some time or other, perhaps ere long, 
overwhelm me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary squalid 
wretchedness."— Burns.l 



ON AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS OF 
LINCLUDEN ABBEY. 

[The Abbey ruins are near Dumfries, on the banks of the Cluden. These lines 
were first published in Hogg and Motherwell's edition, Glasgow, 1837.] 

Ye holy walls, that, still sublime, 
Resist the crumbling touch of time ; 



BURNS'S POEMS. 305 

How strongly still your form displays 
The piety of ancient days ! 
A s through your ruins hoar and gray, — 
Ruins, yet beauteous in decay, — 
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly : 
The forms of ages long gone by 
Crowd thick on fancy's wond'ring eye, 
And wake the soul to musings high. 
Ev'n now, as lost in thought profound, 
I view the solemn scene around, 
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, 
The past returns, the present flies ; 
Again the dome in pristine pride, 
Lifts high its roof and arches wide, 
That knit with curious tracery 
Each Gothic ornament display. 
The high arch'd windows painted fair, 
Show many a saint and martyr there. 
As on their slender forms I'd gaze, 
Methinks they brighten to a blaze ! 
With noiseless step and taper bright, 
What are yon forms that meet my sight ? 
Slowly they move, while every eye 
Is heav'n-ward rais'd in ecstasy. 
'Tis the fair, spotless, vestal train 
That seek in pray'r the midnight fane ! 
And hark ! what more than mortal sound 
Of music breathes the pile around ? 
'Tis the soft chanted choral song, 
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong ; 
Till thence returned, they softly stray 
O'er Cluden's wave with fond delay ; 
Now on the rising gale swell high, 
And now in fainting murmurs die ; 
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream, 
That glistens in the pale moon-beam, 
Suspend their dashing oars to hear 
The holy anthem, loud and clear ; 
Each worldly thought a while forbear, 
And mutter forth a half-form'd prayer. 
But as I gaze the vision fails 
Like frost work touch'd by southern gales, 
The altar sinks, the tapers fade, 
And all the splendid scene's decay'd ; 



366 BURXS'S POEMS. 

In window fair, the painted pane 
No longer glows with holy stain, 
But, through the broken glass, the gale 
Blows chilly from the misty vale ; 
The bird of eve flits sullen by, 
Her home these aisles and arches high ! 
The choral hymn that erst so clear 
Broke softly sweet on fancy's ear, 
Is drown'd amid the mournful scream 
That breaks the magic of my dream ! 
Rous'd by the sound I start and see 
The ruin'd sad reality ! 



TO CLARINDA. 



Before I saw Clarinda's face 
My heart was blythe and gay ; 

Free as the wind, or feather'd race, 
That hop from spray to spray. 

But now dejected I appear, 

Clarinda proves unkind ; 
I, sighing, drop the silent tear, 

But no relief can find. 

In plaintive notes my tale -rehearses 
When I the fair have found ; 

On every tree appear my verses 
That to her praise resound. 

But she, ungrateful, shuns my sight, 

My faithful love disdains, 
My vows and tears her scorn excite — 

Another happy reigns. 

Ah, though my looks betray, 

I envy your success : 
Yet love to friendship shall give way, 

I cannot wish it less. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 367 

TO THE SAME. 

[Written in 1788, in one of his celebrated letters to that lady.] 

" I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen' d corn, 

By driving winds the crackling flames are borne I" 

Now madd'ning, wild, I curse that fatal night ; 

Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. 

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose ; 

Chain'd at his feet they groan, love's vanquish'd foes : 

In vain religion meets my shrinking eye ; 

I dare not combat — but I turn and fly : 

Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire ; 

Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire ; 

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 

Your dear idea reigns, and reigns alone : 

Each thought intoxicated homage yields, 

And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 

By all on high adoring mortals know ! 

By all the conscious villain fears below ! 

By your dear self! — the last great oath I swear; 

Nor life, nor soul, were ever half so dear ! 



TO THE OWL. 



[It is questionable whether this is Burns^s oi^iot The only reason for think- 
ing it is not his rests upon the fact that the MS. is signed John M'Creddie. This 
is now believed to have been a fictitious signature.] 

Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth, 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour ? 

Is it some blast that gathers in the north 

Threat'ning to nip the verdure of thy bow'r ? 

Is it, sad owl, that autumn strips the shade, 
And leaves thee here unshelterd and forlorn? 

Or fear that winter will thy nest invade ? 
Or friendless, melancholy bids thee mourn ? 

Shut out, lone bird, from all the feather'd train, 
To tell thy sorrows to th 1 unheeding gloom ; 

No friend to pity when thou dost complain, 
Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home. 



368 BURNS'S POEMS. 

Sing on, sad mourner ! I will bless thy strain, 
And pleas'd in sorrow listen to thy song : 

Sing on, sad mourner ; to the night complain, 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek, 
Sad piteous tears in native sorrows fall? 

Less kind the heart when anguish bids it break? 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call? 

Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet, 
That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there ; 

That spring's gay notes, unskill'd thou canst repeat, 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day 

Are quite estrang'd, sad bird of night, from thee, 

Nor that the thrush deserts the ev'ning spray ! 
When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 

From some old tow'r, thy melancholy dome, 
While the gray walls, and desert solitudes, 

Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods. 

There hooting, I will list more pleas'd to thee 
Than ever lover to the nightingale ; - 

Or drooping wretch, oppress'd with misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 



EXTEMPORE. 

PINNED ON A LADY'S COACH. 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue, 

Your speed will outrival the dart : 
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the 
road, 

If your stuff has the rot, like her heart. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 369 

JOHNNY PEEP. 

[Given on newspaper authority.] 

Burns, one day at a cattle-market in a town in Cumberland, lost sight of some 
friends who accompanied him. In searching for them he went to a tavern, and 
looked into every room, till at last he came to one in which three jolly fellows 
were enjoying themselves. As he withdrew his head, one of them said, "Come 
in, Johnny Peep." Burns went in and joined the party; and in the course of 
their merriment, it was proposed that each should write a stanza of poetry, and 
put it with half-a-crown below the candlestick, with this stipulation, that the 
best poet was to have his half-crown returned, while the other three were to be 
expended to treat the party. Burns's verse, which was the best, ran thus :— 

Here am I, Johnny Peep, 
I saw three sheep, 

And these three sheep saw me ; 
Half-a-crown a-piece 
"Will pay for their fleece, 

And so Johnny Peep gets free. 



IMPROMPTU, 

TO MISS AINSLIE. 

[Suggested by a sermon on sin, to which Miss Ainslie and the poet had just 
listened.] 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 

Nor idle texts pursue : — 
'Twas guilty sinners that he meant, 

Not angels such as you ! 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

Oh death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 

Whom we this day lament, 
We freely wad exchanged the wife, would (have) 

An' a' been weel content. well 

E'en as he is, cauld in his graff, co id, grave 

The swap we yet will do't ; exchange 

Tak' thou the carlin's carcase aff, 



Thou'se get the saul to boot. soul 



old felluw': 
off 



370 BURNS'S POEMS. 



ANOTHER ON HIS WIDOW. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell, 
When deprived of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust., and she drank off the powder. 

But Queen Netherplace, of a different complexion, 
When called on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have ate her dead lord, on a slender pretence, 
Not to show, tier respect, but— to s;av@ the expense ! 



ON CAPTAIN GROSE, THE CELEBRATED 
ANTIQUARY. 

[Written timing a igstive. occasion.] 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying ; 

Rut when he approach 'd where poor Francis lay moaning, 

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning,* 

Astonish'd, confounded, cried Satan, "By 

Til want 'im, ere. I take such a damnable load." 



ON INCIVILITY SHOWN HIM AT INVERARY. 

[Burns and a friend went to Iriverary at a time when some persons were there 
visitors of his Grace the Duk,e^of Argyll:. ,The- landlord neglected Burns and 
his companion, and devoted his whole attention to my lord's visitors. Burns, in 
his resentment, wrotethe following : — ] 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he £ome t'o wait upon 

The Lord their God, his G^ace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride, nothing 

And Highland scab and hunger ; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in his anger. 

* Mr. Grose was very corpulent 



BURNS'S TOEMS, 371 



HIGHLAND HOSPITALITY. 

[Composed and repeated to the master of a house in the Highlands where Burns 
had been hospitably entertained.] 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come. 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more, 

Than jus* a Highland welcome. 



ON THE KIRK AT LAMINGTON. 

A cauld, cauld day December blew, cold 

A cauld, cauld kirk, and in'tafeut few, 
A caulder minister never spakV- 
They'll a' be warm ere I come back. 



WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

ON THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAL THANKSGIVING FOR A 
NAVAL VICTORY. 

Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks ? — 

To murder men, and gi'e God thanks ! give 

For shame ! gi'e o'er, proceed no further — 

God won't accept your thanks for murther ! 



ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATIONS OF 
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

["Stopping at a merchant's shop, a Mend of mine, in Edinburgh, one day 
put El phin stone's Translation of Martial into my hand, and desired my opinion 
of it. I asked permission to write my opinion on a blank leaf of the book, 
which being granted, I wrote this epigram." — Burns.] 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors, 
Whom prose has turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou that groan — proceed no further ; 
'Twas laurelled Martial roaring murther I 



372 burns's TOEMS. 



LINES ON MRS. KEMBLE. 



Kemble, thou cnr'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod ; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 

[Spoken in reply to a gentleman who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland for 
conscience-sake, and called the Solemn League and Covenant ridiculous and 
fanatical.] 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

Cost Scotland blood — cost Scotland tears : 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause — 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



ON A CERTAIN PARSON'S LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ! 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF THE 
EARL OF * * * * 

What dost thou in that mansion fair ? — 

Flit, * * * * and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE EARL OF * * * 

No Stewart art thou, * * * * 
The Stewarts all were brave : 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



BURNs'S POEMS. 373 



ON THE SAME. 



Bright ran thy line, oh * * * 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire. 



TO THE SAME, 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT, 

Spare me thy vengeance, * * * * 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



ON AN EMPTY FELLOW, 

WHO, IN COMPANY, ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION WITH AN 
ACCOUNT OF HIS GREAT CONNECTIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast, 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen : 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen ! 



THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES. 

Ye true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long ; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt, 
But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 



WRITTEN IN A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live, 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give, 
Deal freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



374 BURNS'S POEMS, 

INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

[Written at the house of Mr. Syme, Dumfries.] 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! so 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching ; 

But wha can avoid the fell snare ? who 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

[On refusing to dine with him after having been promised the first of com- 
pany and the first of cookery. December 17, 1795.] 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation ; 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 






TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

Oh, had the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit,. 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 

Jerusalem Tavern^ Dumfries, 



THE CREED OF POVERTY. 

[When the Board of Excise informed Burns that his business was to act, and not 
to think and speak, he read the order to a friend, turned the paper, and wrote 
what he called "The Creed of Poverty ."—Cunningham.] 

In politics if thou would'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind— be deaf and blind ; 

Let great folks hear and see. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 375 



TO JOHN TAYLOR, 

[Blacksmith at Wanlockhead, who shod the poet's horse one winter day, on t 
journey between Dumfriesshire and Ayrshire.] 

With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker ; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 

Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 

Threw by his coat and bonnet, 
And did Sol's business in a crack ; 

Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Wanlockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster ; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

I'll pay you like my master. 

Ramage's, 3 o'clock. 



THE TOAST. 



[Burns heing called upon for a song at a dinner of the Dumfries Volunteers, 
in honour of Rodney's victory of the 12th of April, 1782, replied to the call by 
pronouncing the following :— ] 

Instead of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost ! 
That we lost, did I say ? nay, by Heav'n, that we found ; 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you — the King ! 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with politics not to be cramm'd, 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd ; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal, 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial. 



376 BURNS 7 S POEMS. 

TO MISS FONTEXELLE, 

ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to Mature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 

Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art ; 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Then indeed thou'd'st act a part. 



WRITTEN ON A window of the globe 

TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay Folly to live ; 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But folly has raptures to give. 



ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 

[Written on a pane of glass in the Friar's Car.se Hermitage.] 

To Riddel, much lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 



ON THE DEATH OF A LAP DOG, 

NAMED ECHO. 

[Written at Kenmore Castle, to please Mrs. Gordon, who requested him to do 
bo, much against his inclination. It was a singularly unfit subject for him.l 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more* 



BUKNS's POEMS. 377 



Ye jarring, screeching things around, 
Scream your discordant joys ; 

Now half your din of tuneless sound 
With Echo silent lies. 



EXCISEMEN UNIVERSAL. 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, 

In the King's Anns Inn, Dumfries, in consequence of overhearing a gentle 
man speak despitefully of the officers of excise. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor excisemen ? give the cause a hearing. 
What are your landlords' rent rolls? teazing ledgers : 
What premiers — what ? even monarchs' mighty gaugers : 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men ? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual excisemen? 



ON A SUICIDE. 



Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 
Planted by Satan's dibble — ; 

Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd hinisel' 
To save the Lord the trouble. 



TAM THE CHAPMAN. 

[Tarn was Mr. Thomas Kennedy, a mercantile agent. One Sabhath morn- 
ing Burns had overtaken Kennedy on his way to church. Struck with Mr. 
Kennedy's woe-begone looks, consequent upon a severe illness from which he 
had just recovered', the poet extemporized the following epitaph on a scrap of 
paper with a pencil:—] 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day, 

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, met 

Weel pleas'd he greets a wight so famous, well 

And Death was nae less pleas'd wi' Thomas, no 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 

And there blaws up a hearty crack ; blows 



378 BURNS'S POEMS. 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part, so, not 

Sae after viewing knives and garters 

Death tak's him hame to gi'e him quarters. home 



A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST FRIEND. 

11 There's nane that's blest of human kind, 
But the cheerful and the gay, man, 
Fal laL &c." 

Hebe's a bottle and an honest friend, 

What wad you wish for mair, man ? would, more 

Wha kens before his life may end, wno 

What's share may be o' care, man ? 

Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man ! 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes not aye when sought, 'man. 



TO THE MEN AND BRETHREN OF THE MASONIC 
LODGE AT TARBOLTON. 

Within your dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withering envy ne'er enter : 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre. 

Edinburgh, 23d August, 1787. 



ON BURNS'S HORSE BEING IMPOUNDED. 

[Burns having paid a visit to "Merry Carlisle" on horseback, turned out his 
horse to grass for a short time. From the field into which he had been put he 
broke into one that belonged to the corporation, and was consequently im- 
pounded by the mayor. Next morning, the mayor, when he heard whose horse 
it was, released him immediately.! 

Was e'er puir poet sae befitted, poor 

The maister drunk — the horse committed : master 

Puir harmless beast ! tak' thee nae care, no 

Thou'lt be a horse, when he's nae mair (mayor), mora 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



379 



POETICAL BEPLY TO AN INVITATION. 

Mossgiel, 1786. 

Sir, — Yours this moment I unseal, 

And faith I'm gay and hearty ! 
To tell the truth an' shame the de'il 
I am as fou as Bartie : 



But Foorsday, Sir, my promise leal, 
Expect me o' your party, 

If on a beastie I can speel 
Or hurl on a cartie. 



very drunk 

Thursday 

climb 



ANOTHEE. 



The king's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute ; 

But I'll be wi' you by and bye, 
Or else the devil's in it. 



THE TOAD-EATEK. 

tA reproof administered extempore to one of the jruests of Mr. Maxwell of 
Terraughty, whose whole talk was of dukes and earls with whom he had dined.] 

What of earls with whom you have supp'd, 
And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 

Lord ! a louse, Sir, is still but a louse, 
Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. 



INVITATION TO A MEDICAL GENTLEMAN 

TO ATTEND A MASONIC ANNIVERSARY MEETING. 

Friday first's the day appointed 
By our right worshipful anointed 

To hold our grand procession ! 
To get a blade o' Johnnie's morals 
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels, sample 

I 7 the way of our profession. 



380 BURNS's POEMS. 

Our master and the brotherhood 

Wad a 1 be glad to see you ; would 

For me, I would be mair than proud more 
To share the mercies wi' you. 

If death, then, wi' scaith, then, harm 

Some mortal heart is hechtiir, offering 

Inform him, and storm him threaten 

That Saturday yell fecht him. fight 
Robert Burns. 



ON WAR. 

I murder hate, by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us ; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving wars of Venus. 

The deities that I adore 

Are social peace and plenty ; 

I'm better pleased to make one more 
Than be the death o' twenty. 



OX DRINKING. 

My bottle is my holy pool 

That heals the wounds o' care and dool ; 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink it dry, ye'll find him out. 



ON INNOCENCE. 



Innocence 

Looks gaily smiling on ; while rosy pleasure 
Hides young desire amid her flowery wreath, 
And pours her cup luxuriant, mantling high 
The sparkling heavenly vintage, Love and Bliss J 



BURNS'S POEMS. 381 

ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 

[Sir David Maxwell of Cardoness, an excellent man it is said, but who had 
offended the poet at the Heron election.] 

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But body too, must rise ; 

For had he said, " The soul alone 

From death I will deliver ;" 
Alas ! alas ! O Cardoness, 

Then thou had'st slept for ever. 



VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE LANDLADY OF THE INN AT ROSSLYN. 

My blessings on you, sonsie wife : 

I ne'er was here before ; 

You've gi'en us walth for horn and knife, wealth 

Kae heart could wish for more. no 

Heaven keep you free frae care and strife, from 

Till far ayont fourscore ; beyond 

And, while I toddle on through life totter 

I'll ne'er gang by your door. go 



EPIGRAM ON BACON. 

[Bacon was the landlord of the inn at Brownhill, a stage about thirteen mile9 
from Dumfries. Burns dining there one day when the fare consisted chiefly of 
beans and bacon, was asked during the subsequent toddy for a specimen of hia 
improvising. On the spur of the moment he uttered the following lines :— ] 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, 
And plenty of bacon each day in the year ; 
We've all things that's neat, and mostly in season : 
But why always Bacon ? — Come, give me a reason ? 



382 BURNS'S POEMS. 



DN ANDREW TURNER. 

In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, 
Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, 

And cuist it in a corner, cast 

But wilily he changed his plan, 
And shap'd it something Eke a man, 

And ca'd it Andrew Turner. called 



LINES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

[Written by Burns on his deathbed.] 

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock haps his head, 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



ON MISS J. SCOTT OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times, 
Been Jeasy Scott, as thou art ; 
The bravest heart on English ground. 
Had yielded like a coward. 



LINES ON STIRLING. 

[These lines were said to have been written by Bums on a tavern window in 
Stirling, but that has been contradicted by a writer in the Pais-ey Magazine for 
December, 1823, who affirms they were written by his friend Kicol, and that 
Burns rather chose to have them fathered upon himself than betray his friend, 
for the last couplet excited universal indignation.] 

Here Stuarts once in glory reigned, 

And laws for Scotland's weal ordained ; 

But now unroofed their palace stands, 

Their sceptre's swayed by other hands ; 

The injured Stuart line is gone, 

A race outlandish fills their throne ; 

An idiot race, to honour lost ; 

Who know them best despise them most. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 383 



THE REPROOF. 



[A friend representing to him the imprudence of the lines above, he wrote the 
following :— ] 

Rash mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name 

Shall no longer appear on the records of fame ; 

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, 

Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel. 



THE REPLY. 



[The minister of Gladsmnir wrote a censure on the Stirling lines, which 
called forth the following reply :■— ] 

Like JEsop's lion, Burns says, sore I feel 
All others' scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



ON AN ILLITERATE GENTLEMAN WHO HAD 
A FINE LIBRARY. 

Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make your windings ; 
But for the owner's sake, oh spare the bindings ! 



WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT 
CARRON. 

We cam' na here to view your warks not, works 

In hopes to be mair wise, more 

But only, lest we gang to hell, go 

It may be nae surprise : no 

But whan we tirled at your door, knocked 

Your porter dought na hear us ; could not 

Sae may, should we to hell's yet€s come, so, gates 

Your billy Satan safr us J fellow, serve 



384 BURNS'S POEMS, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF 
MISS BURNS. 

[A lady of great personal charms, but frail reputation.] 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess : 

True it is, she had one failing — 
Had a woman ever less ? 



WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

IN THE INN AT MOFFAT. 

[On being asked by a friend why Gcd had made a certain lady so tall, and an- 
other whom the poet highly esteemed (Miss Davies) so little.] 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

And why so huge the granite ? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

The higher value on it. 



FRAGMENT. 

[On the defeat of the Austrians by Dumourier at Gemappe, November, 1792.] 

The black headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle, 
He haunted owre height and owre howe ; over hollow 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, hills 

E'en let him come out as he do we. can 



TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny — 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could not die. 



BUBNS'S POEMS. 385 



ON JESSY LEWAKS. 

[Miss Lewars was highly esteemed by Burns. She waited on him during his 
last illness with the most tender solicitude. One day his medical attendant, Mr. 
Brown, brought in with him the bill of a menagerie he had just been visiting, 
and was in the act of handing it to Miss Lewars, when the poet intercepted it, 
and writing on the back the following lines, presented it to her :— ] 

Talk not to me of savages 

From Afric's burning sun ; 
No savage e'er could rend my heart, 

As, Jessy, thou hast done. 
But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight, 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 



[Upon another occasion, the poet took up a crystal goblet containing wine 
arid water, and after inscribing the following verses upon it, in the character of 
a Tuast, presented it to her:—] 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast— a toast divine ; 
Give the poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name ; 
Then thou mayest freely boast 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



[On Miss Lewars complaining of indisposition, he inscribed the following on 
another goblet, saying, "That will be a companion to the Toast:"—] 

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 

Can turn Death's dart aside ? 
It is not purity and worth, 

Else Jessy had not died. 



[On her recovering, the poet said, "There is a poetic reason for it," and wrotq 
the following :— ] 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky ; 
Yet still one seraph's left on earth, 

For Jessy did not die. 

N 



886 BURNS'S POEMS, 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT, 

COMMONLY CALLED THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some ha'e meat an' canna eat, have, cannot 

An' some would eat that want it, 
But we ha'e meat and we can eat, 

Sae let the Lord be thankit. so, thanked 



GRACES AFTER MEAT. 

Oh, Thou, who kindly dost provide 

For every creature's want ! 
We bless Thee, God of Nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent : 
And, if it please Thee, heavenly guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord, bless us with content I— Amen ! 



O Thou, in whom we live and move, 

Who mad'st the sea and shore ; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please Thee, pow'r above, 

Still grant us with such store, 
The friend we trust, the fair we love. 

And we desire no more. 



GRACE. 

[Spoken at the table of RyedaleJ 

Lord, we thank and Thee adore, 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit ; 

At present we vail ask no more, 
Let William Ilislop* give the spirit. 

• A celebrated distiller. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



387 



ON THE AUTHOR'S FATHER. 

Oh ye whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 

The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying heart that felt for human woe ; 

The dauntless heart that feared no human pride ; 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe ; 

*' For ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side."* 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A case that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'dj 
The devil rul'd the woman. 



ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDEI 



Here souter Hood in death does, sleep- 
To hell if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gi'e him thy gear to keep 
He'll baud it weel thegither. 



cobbler 

gone 

give, wealth 
hold, to- 
gether 



ON A FRIEND, 

An honest man here lies at rest 
As e'er God with his image blest ! 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth. 

Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss ; 
If there, is none, he made the best of this. 



388 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

[James Humphry, a working man at Mauchline.] 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes, 

Oh Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



these stones, 
bones 

talking non- 
sense 



ON WEE JOHNNY. 

HIC JACET WEE JOHNNY. 

[John Wilson, the printer of the first edition of the author's poems at Kil- 
marnock.] 

Whoe'er thou art, oh reader, know, 

That death has murder'd Johnny ! 
And here his body lies fu' low — 

For saul he ne'er had ony. soul, any 



FOE ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, oh stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



ON JOHN DOVE, 

INNKEEPER, mauchline. 

Here lies Johnnie Pidgeon ; 
What was his religion ? 

Wha e'er desires to ken, 
To some ither warP 
Mann follow the carl, 

For here Johnnie Pidgeon had nane ! 



World 
tnH8t, fcHo« 

none 



burns's roEMS. 389 

Strong ale was ablution — 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento mori ; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH 



ON A PERSON NICKNAMED THE MARQUIS, WHO DESIRED 
BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 

Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd. 
If ever he rise, it will be to be d — d. 



FOE GAVIN HAMILTON. 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps, 
Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be, 
Mav I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER IN CLEISH PARISH, 
FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes, bones 

Oh Satan, when ye tak' him ; 
Gi'e him the schoolin' of your weans ; children 

For clever de'ils he'll mak' 'em. 



ON MR. W. CRUICKSHANKS. 

Honest Will's to Heaven gane, soiie 

And mony shall lament him ; many 

His fauts they a' in Latin lay, faults 

In English nane e'er kent them. knew 



390 BUKXS'S POEMS. 



OX WAT. 



Sic a reptile was Wat, rach 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the very worms danm'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
41 And his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 



FOR WILLIAM NICCL, 

Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain, 

For few sic feasts you've gotten ; stlc h 

You've got a prize o' Willie's heart, 

For de'il a bit o't's rotten. of it is 



ON W- 

Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death, 

As "Willie drew his latest breath ; 

You have my choicest model ta'en, taken 

How shall I make a fool again ? 



ON THE SAME. 

Rest gently, turf, upon his breast, 
His chicken heart's so tender ; — 
But rear huge castles on his head, 
His skull will prop them under. 



ON JOHN BUSHBY, WRITER, DUMFKIE& 

Heue lies John Bushby, honest man, 
Cheat him, devil, if you can. 



BURNS'S POEMS. 



391 



ON GABBIEL RICHAKDSON, BREWER, 
DUMFRIES* 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 

And empty all his barrels ; 
He's blest — if as he brew'd he drink — 

In upright honest morals. 



BALLAD ON MR. HERON'S ELECTION. 

BALLAD FOURTH. 
JOHN BUSBY'S LAMENTATION. 

Air, — The Babes in the Wood, 

'Twas in the seventeen hunder year 

0' grace an' ninety-five, 
That year I was the wae'est man saddest 

O' ony man alive. 

In March the three-an' -twentieth morn, 

The sun raise clear an' bright ; 
But oh I was a waefu' man 

Ere to-fa' o' the night. the close 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land, Earl 

Wi' equal right and fame, 
An' thereto was his kinsman joined 

The Murray's noble name. 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land, 

Made me the judge o' strife ; 
But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke, 

An' eke my hangman's knife. also 

'Twas by the banks o' bonnie Dee, 

Beside Kirkcudbright's towers, 
The Stewart an' the Murray there 

Did muster a' their powers. 

The Murray, on the auld gray yaud, ma re 

Wi' winged spurs did ride, 
That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rade, 

He staw upon Nidside. stole 

* Father of Dr. Richardson, who accompanied Franklin's expedition. 



1 

302 BURNS'S POEMS. 




An' there had na been the yerl himseP, 


not 


there had been nae play ; 


no 


But Garlies was to London gane, 




An' sae the kye might stray. 


so, kine 


An' there was Balmaghie, I ween, 




In front rank he wad shine ; 


would 


But Balmaghie had better been 




Drinking Madeira wine. 




Frae the Glenkens came to our aid, 




A chief o' doughty deed ; 


mighty 


In case that worth should wanted be, 




0' Kenmure we had need. 




An' by our banners marched Muirhead, 




An' Buittle was na slack ; 




Whase haly priesthood nane can stain, 


holy 


For wha can dye the black ? 




An' there sae grave Squire Cardoness, 




Looked on till a' was done ; 




Sae, in the tower o' Cardoness 




A howlet sits at noon. 


ovrl 


An' there led I the Busby clan, 




My gamesome Billie, Will ; 


brother 


An' my son Maitland, wise as brave, 




My footsteps followed still. 




The Douglas an' the Heron's name 




We set nought to their score ; 




The Douglas an' the Heron's name 




Had felt our might before. 




But Douglasses o' weight had we, 




The pair o' lusty lairds, 




For building cot-houses sae famed, 




An' christening kail-yairds. 


cabbage 



An' there Redcastle drew his sword, 
That ne'er was stained wi' gore, 

Save on a wanderer lame an' blind, 
To drive him frae his door. 

At last came creeping C 1 n, 

Was mair in fear than wrath ; 

Ae knave was constant in his mind, 
To keep that knave frae skaith. 



more 

one 

harm 



S N G b. 



BRUCE'S ADDRESS. 
Air, — Hey, Tuttie Taittie. 

["The old air, 'Hey, tuttie taittie,' with Fraser's hautboy, has often filled my 
eyes -with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places 
of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. 
This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm, 
on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish 
ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's 
address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning."— Burns to G. Thomson, 
September, 1793.3 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, who, have 

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; whom, often 

Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to victorie ! 

JNow's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and slavery ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? so 

Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa', fail 

Let him follow me ! 

By oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 



394 



BURXS'S SOXGS. 



Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us do, or die ! 



AULD LASTGr SYNE. 

Air, — Sir Alexander Don's strathspey. 

[" Is not the Scotch phrase, ! Auld lang syne ' exceedingly expressive ? There 
is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through ray soul. . . Light 
be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious 
fragment."— Burns to Mrs. Dunlop The authorship, however, is now justly 
attributed to Burns himself. Such poetic fictions are not uncommon in the 
history of poetry.] 



Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
An' never brought to mind ? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
An' days o' auld lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e ran about the braes, 

An' pu'd the gowans fine ; 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

We twa ha'e paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid ha'e roar'd 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

An' here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 

An' gi'e's a hand o' thine ; 
An' we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught, 

For auld lang syne. 

An' surely you'll be your pint-stoup, 

An' surely I'll be mine ; 
An' we'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 



old 



long ago 



two have 
pulled, 
daisies 



dabbled 
from, noon 
broad 

friend 

give us 
good 
draught 

flagon 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



395 



FOR A' THAT, AN' A' THAT. 
Air, — For a* (licit, an y a' that 

["The following will be allowed, I think, to he two or three pretty pood prose 
thoughts, inverted into rhyme. . . I do not give you the song for your book, 
but merely by way of vive la bagatelle; for the piece is not really poetry."— 
jiurns to G. Thomson. Some will agree doubtless with Burns, and some will 
decidedly disagree with him. Poetry or not, it is one of the noblest effusions 
ever poured forth from the soul of man.] 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, an' a' that ? 
The coward slave we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Our toil's obscure, an' a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 



What tho' on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin gray, an' a' that ; 
Gi'e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ; 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their tinsel show, an' a' that ; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor, 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that ; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

His riband, star, an' a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak' a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Gude faith he manna fa' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities, an' a' that, 
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that. 



gold 

homely 
coarse cloth 
give 



smart fellow 
who 



fool 



above 
must not 
attempt 



396 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that, 
That sense an' worth, o'er a 1 the earth, 

May bear the gree, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet, for a' that, 
That man to man, the warld o er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



supremacy 



world 



MY NANNIE, O. 
Air, — My Nannie, O. 






[" I have often thought that no man can be a proper critic of love composition, 
except he himself, in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this 
passion. Whether ' My Nannie, ' will stand the test, I will not pretend to say, 
because it is my own ; only I can say it was at the time genuine from the heart." 
— B urns' s Common-Place Book. The heroine of this beautiful song is believed 
to have been a certain Agnes (Nannie) Fleming, servant at Calcothill, near 
Lochlea.] 



Behind yon hills where Lugar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
An' I'll awa' to Nannie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill : 
The night's baith mirk an' rainy, O ; 

But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal, 
An' owre the hills to Nannie, O. 



among 
away 



shrill 
both dark 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young ; 

Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 
May ill befa' the flattering tongue 

That wad beguile my Nannie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, 0. 

A country lad is my degree, 

An' few there be that ken me, O ; 

But what care I how few they be ? 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, 0. 



would 



daisy 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



397 



My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ; 

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, 0. 

Our auld gudeman delights to view 
His sheep an 1 kye thrive bonnie, O ; 

But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, 
And has nae care but Nannie, O. 



all is, wages 
must, care- 
fully 
world's 
wealth 



old goodman 

co>vs 

holds, plough 



Come weel, come woe, I care na by, not although 

I'll tak' what Heav'n will sen' me, O ; 
Nae ither care in life ha'e I, other 

But live, an' love my Nannie, 0. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

FIRST VERSION. 

[This, like all Burns's earlier songs, was founded in fact. Miss Kennedy 
of Dalgarrick, young, beautiful, and accomplished, fell a victim to her love for 
M*Douall of Logan, and died of a broken heart] 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fair ! so 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

An' I sae fu' o' care ! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie 

That sings upon the bough ; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause luve was true. 



bird, 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, an' sae I sang, 

An' wistna o' my fate. 

Aft ha'e I rov'd by bonnie Doon, 

To see the woodbine twine, 
An' ilka bird sang o' it's luve ; 

An' sae did I o' mine. 



false love 



guessed not 



every 



BURXS'S SONGS. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aif its thorny tree ; from off 

An* my fause luver staw the rose, f sto e ie° Ver 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



SECOND VERSION. 

Am,— Caledonian hunt's delight. 

Ye banks an' braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh an' fair ; ^ 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

An' I sae weary fu' o' care ! full 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys, 

Departed — never to return ! 

Aft ha'e I roved by bonnie Doon, oft have 

To see the rose an' woodbine twine ; 
An' ilka bird sang o' its luve, every, love 

An' fondly sae did I o' mine. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
An' my fause luver stole my rose, false lover 

But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 



WILL YE GO TO THE IXDIES, MY MARY? 

Air, — Tlie ewe-bucJits. 

C" In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, 
I took the following farewell of a dear girl " (Mary Campbell).— Burns.'] 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And leave auld Scotia's shore ? ia 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

Across the Atlantic's roar ? 

Oh sweet grow the lime and the orange, 

And the apple on the pine ; 
But a' the charms o' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 



buhns's SONGS. 399 

I ha'e sworn by the heavens to my Mary, have 

I ha'e sworn by the heavens to be true / 
And sae may the heavens forget me, 

When I forget my vow ! 

Gh plight me your faith, my Mary, 

And plight me your lily-white hand ; 
Oh plight me your faith, my Mary, 

Before I leave Scotia's strand. 

We ha'e plighted our troth, my Mary, 

In mutual affection to join, 
And curst be the cause that shall part us ! 

The hour and the moment o' time ! 



HIGHLAND MARY, 

Am, — Katharine Ogie. 

tThe " castle o' Montgomery " was that of Coilsfield, near Tarholton, the seat of 
Colonel Hugh Montgomery, ultimately twelfth Earl of Eglintoune. Mary 
Campbell lived in that house as a dairy-woman. Burns having agreed with her 
that they should be married, met her on the banks of the Ayr, to bid her fare- 
well previous to her departure for the West Highlands, where her relations 
resided. They were to have been married on her return, but Mary, soon after 
reaching Greenock, was seized with a malignant fever, which earned her off 
before Burns could arrive to bid her a last farewell.] 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! muddy 

There simmer first unfaulds her robes, S foTcis er ^ 

An 1 there the langest tarry ; longest 

For there I took the last fareweel 

0' my sweet Highland Mary. 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, tircl1 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my deary ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



400 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Wr mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, many 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
An', pledging aft to meet again, oft 

We tore oursel's asunder ; 
But, Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! so 

Xow green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, C oid 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

Oh pale, pale, now, those rosy lips, 

I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly ! have 

An' clos'd for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ; 
An' mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lov'd me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 

Air, — My wife's a wanton wee thing. 

[" There is a peculiar rhythmus in many of our airs, and a necessity for adapting 
syllables to the emphasis, or what I would call the feature notes of the tune, that 
cramp the poet, and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, 
in the air, 'My wife's a wanton wee thing,' if a few lines, smooth and pretry, can 
be adapted to it, it is all you can expect The following were made extempore 
to it"— Burns to G. Thomson.] 

She is a winsome wee thing, winning 

She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer ; toved 

And neist my heart I'll wear her, nex t 

For fear my jewel tine. ] ose 

Oh leeze me on my wee thing, blessings on 

My bonnie, blythesome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I ha'e my wee thing, so lon s> have 

I'll think my lot divine. 




"It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That 's blinMn' in the lift sae hie ; 
She shines sae bright to wile us name, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!" 



Oh, Willie Bkew'd, p. 401. 



BUKNS'S SONGS. 



401 



Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't ; 
Wi' herl'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 



world's 
much more 



OH, WILLIE JBKEW'D. 

Air, — Willie brewed a peck o' maat 

f" This air is Masterton's ; the song- mine. The occasion of it was this :— Mr. 
William Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation of 
17S9, being at Moffat, honest Allan (Masterton), who was at that time on a visit 
to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Jsicol a visit. We had such a joyous meet- 
ing, that Mr. Masterton and 1 agreed, each in our own way, that we should 
celebrate the business."— Burns. " This meeting," says Currfe, "took place at 
Laggan, a farm purchased by Mr. Xicol, in Nithsdale, on the recommendation of 
Bums." The bowl in which the punch was made is still preserved. It is made 
of Inverary marble, and was wrought by the skilful hands of the poet's father- 
in-law. After Burns's death it was rimmed and bottomed with silver, and pre- 
sented to Alexander Cunningham. Some years ago it fell into the hands of 
Archibald Hastie, Esq., lately M. P. for Paisley, who, annually on the 25th of 
January regaled a select company of Burns's admirers from this now celebrated 
bowl. On Mr. Hastie's death it was, by the terms of his will, deposited in the 
British Museum.] 



Oh, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, 
An' Eob an' Allan cam* to pree : 
Three blyther hearts that lee-lang night, 
Ye wad na find in Christendie. 

We are na fou', we're nae that fou', 

But just a drappie in our e'e ; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw, 
And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 

Here are we met, three merry boys, 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 

An' mony a night we've merry been, 
And mony mae we hope to be! 

It is the moon, I ken her horn, 
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie ; 

She shines sae bright to wile us hame, 
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee ! 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa', 
A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 

Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 
He is the king amang us three I 



malt 

came, taste 
live-long 
would not 
tipsy 
drop, eye 
crow, dawn 
juice 



many 
more 



sky, so high 

home 

while 



go 
fellow 



among 



402 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



I GAED A WAEFtP GATE YESTREEN. 

Am, — The blue-eyed lassie. 

[Composed on Miss Jean Jeffrey, daughter of the minister of Lochmaben. 

Burns, spending an evening at the marise, was fascinated with the young lady; 
next morning he presented her with the song.] 

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, ^ ent ' ™ ful » 

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; road m ° * 

I gat my death frae twa sweet een, flom two 

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue. e}es 
? Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 

Her lips like roses wat wi 1 dew, vet 
Her heaving bosom, lily-white — 

It was her een sae bonnie blue. so 



She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wil'd ; 

She charm' d my soul — I wist na how ; 
An' aye the stound, the deadly wound, 

Cam' frae her een sae bonnie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed ; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonnie blue. 



not 
pang 



pernaps 
death 



AULD HOB MORRIS. 
Air, — Jock, the laird's brother. 

[ " The first two lines are taken from an old ballad— the rest is wholly original. * 
'—lurried 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, dwells 
He's the king o' gude fellows an' wale o' auld men ; choice 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen an' kine, gold, oxen 
An' ae bonnie lassie, his darling an' mine. one 



She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, 
An' dear to my heart as the light to my e'e. 




BURNS'S SONGS. 



403 



But, oh ! she's an heiress, auld Kobin's a laird, old 
An' my daddie has naught but a cot-house an' yard : 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, must not 

The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead, death 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; none 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : gone 
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, alone, ghost 

And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast, would 

Oh had she but been of a lower degree, 
I then might ha'e hop'd she wad smil'd upon me ! have 
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss, describing 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 



DUNCAST GRAY. 

Am, — Duncan Gray. 

[This has nothing in common with the old song of Duncan Gray, except the 
first line and a part of the third.] 

Duncan Gray cam 1 here to woo, came 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
On blythe Yule night when we were fu', 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent an' unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Duncan fleech'd, an' Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,* 

Ha, ha, the wooing o r t. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in, 
Grat his een baith bleert an' blin', 
Spak' o' lowpin owre a linn ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Time an' chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

* A well-known rock in the frith of CiycJe. 



Christmas 



cast 

aside, very 

disdainful 

made, aloof 



flattered 



both 

wept, eyes 
spoke, leap- 
ing 



sore, hear 



404 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 

For a naughty hizzie die ? hussy 

She may gae to — France for me ! go 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Meg grew sick — as he grew heal, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings ; 
An' oh, her een, they spak' sic things ! 8 poke such 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 
Duncan could na be her death, not 

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; smothered 

Now they're crouse an' canty baith ; lively, happy 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



OH WHISTLE AN' I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 
Air, — Whistle ari > Til come to you, my lad. 

[Founded upon an old fragment. The air was composed by John Bruce, a 
Dumfries fiddler.] 

Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad, 
Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father an' mither an' a' should gae mad, go 
Oh whistle an' I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, take care 

An' come na unless the back yett be a-jee ; n S«- eate 

Syne up the back stile, an' let naebody see, then 

An' come as ye were na comin' to me. 
An' come, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 

Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ; g0 , not 



BURNS's SONGS. 405 

But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e, eye 

Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Aye vow an' protest that ye care na for me, 
An' whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; sometimes, 

But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, not ght 

For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. from 

For fear, &c. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Air, — Dainty Davie. 

[Dainty Davie is the name of an old song, from which Burns borrowed nothing 
but the title and the measure.] 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers ; 
An' now come in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, knoll 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie ; worthy 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 

My ain dear dainty Davie. own 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 

The scented breezes round us blaw, blow 

A wandering wi' my Davie. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithful' Davie. 

When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, love 

An' that's my ain dear Davie. 



406 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THOU HAST LEFT ME EVER. 
Air, — Fee Mm, father, fee Mm. 

[ " I composed these verses by the lee side of a bowl of punch, which had overset 
every mortal in the company, except the hautbois and the muse."— Burns to 
Thomson. The poet intended to have added another stanza, but never found 
himself in the mood.] 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever ; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, thou hast left me ever ; 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death only should us often 

sever, 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — I maun see thee must 

never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me for- 
saken ; 

Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, thou hast me for- 
saken ; 

Thou canst love anither jo, while my heart is break- lover 
ing; 

Soon my weary een I'll close — -never mair to waken, eyes, more 
Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE. 

Air, — Wliat can a young lassie do wV an auld man. 

[An improvement upon an old song to the same air.] 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man ? old 
Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie mother 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! silver 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ! 

He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin', from 

He hoasts an' he hirples the weary day lang ; coughs 
He's doyl't an' he's doziu, his bluid it is frozen, stupid, blood 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
He's doyl't an' he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 
Oh, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man I 



BURNS 7 S SONGS. 



407 



He hums an' he hankers, he frets an' he cankers, 

I never can please him, do a' that I can ; 
He's peevish an' jealous of a' the young fellows : 

Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! sorrow 
He's peevish an' jealous of a' the young fellows : 
Oh, dool on the day I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me tak's pity, 

I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until I heart-break him, 
An' then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 
I'll cross him, an' wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
An' then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



BESS AND HER SPINNES T G- WHEEL. 

Air,- — The siveet lass that lo'es me, 

[The air to which this song was written was composed by Oswald.] 

Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel, 
Oh leeze me on my rock an' reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
An' haps me fiel an' warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down an' sing an' spin, 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, an' milk an' meal — 
Oh leeze me on my spinning-wheel ! 

On ilka hand the burnies trot, 

An' meet below my theekit cot ; 

The scented birk an' hawthorn white, 

Across the pool their arms unite, 

Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 

An' little fishes' caller rest : 

The sun blinks kindly in the bid', 

Where blythe I turn my spinning-wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
An' echo cons the dolefu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays: 



blessings on 

from top, toe, 
clothes, well 
wraps, soft 

low, summer 



each, 

streamlets 
thatched 
birch 



cool 
shelter 



oaks, wood-* 
pigeons 

linnets 
other's 



408 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



The craik amang the clover hay, 
The paitrick whirrin' o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin' round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinning-wheel. 

Wi* sma' to sell, an* less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
Oh wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel 
Of Bessy at her spinning-wheel? 



landrail 
partridge, 

lea 
darting, hut 



small 
above 
who would 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

Air, — Green grow the rashes. 
[An improvement upon an old song to the same air.) 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In every hour that passes, O : 
What signifies the life o' man, 

An 'twere na for the lasses, O. 

chorus. 
Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend 

Are spent amang the lasses, 0. 

The warl'ly race may riches chase, 

An' riches still may fly them, O ; 
An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. 

But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en, 

My arms about my dearie, O ; 
An' warl'ly cares, an' warl'ly men, 

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. 

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
Ye' re nought but senseless asses, O ; 

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 



rushes 



worldly 



give, happy 



go, topsy- 
turvey 



so grave 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



409 



Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O : 

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses, O.* 



old 



MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE. 

Aik, — My tocher's the jewel. 

[This song was written for the Museum, in 1790, to an air by Oswald. The 
poet's own wish was to have it sung to a tune called " Lord Elcho's favourite."] 

On meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty, much, love 

An' meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawly 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree ; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna ha'e luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny, 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; 
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin', 

Sae ye wi' another your fortune maun try. 
Ye' re like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood, 

Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree ; 
Yell slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

An' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



well 

dower's 

honey 
silver 
cannot have 

earnest- 
money 
wouid 
if 

so, must 
timber 

from 
more than 



THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE. 
Air, — There are few guid fellows when Willie's awa. 
[Written in one of his Jacobitical moods, in which he frequently indulged.] 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, 

I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray ; 

An' as he was singing, the tears down came, 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. Lome 

* A comedy entitled Cupid's Whirligig, published in 1607, contains an apostrophe 
to the female sex, as follows :— " Since we were made before you, should we not 
admire you as the last, and therefore perfect work of nature? Man was made 
when nature was but an apprentice, but woman when she was a skilful mistress 
of her art." 



410 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



The church is in ruins, the state is in jars ; 

Delusions, oppressions, an' murderous wars ; 

We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame, dare not 

There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



well 



My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
An' now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. weep, earth 
It brak' the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame — broke, old 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 



Now life is a burthen that bows me down, 
Since I tint my bairns, an' he tint his crown ; 
But till my last moments my words are the same- 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame ! 



lost, children 



OH, FOR ANE-AXD-TWENTY, TAM. 
Air, — Ttte MoudieworL 



CHORUS. 



A:kd oh, for ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 
And hey, sweet ane-and-twenty, Tarn, 

I'll learn my kin a rattlin' sang, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



song 



They snool me sair, and haud me down, 
And gar me look like b-Iuntie, Tarn ! 

But three short years will soon wheel roun'- 
And then comes ane-and-twenty, Tam.^ 



snub, sore, 
hold 
make, stupid 



A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie, Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier, 
An I saw ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



piece, lot of 
wealth 



not ask 
if 



They'll ha'e me wed a wealthy coof, have, fool 

Tho' I mysel' ha'e plenty, Tarn ; 
But hear'st thou, laddie — there's my loof— ■ hand 

I'm thine at ane-and-twenty, Tarn. 



BUKNS's SONGS. 411 

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA'. 
Air, — Oh Kenmure's on and awa\ Willie. 

[Supposed to be one of those soncs -which Burns "only improved from old ver- 
sions. William Gordon, sixth Viscount of Kemmrre, "joined the Pretender in 
1715, and commanded the insurgent forces in the south of Scotland. Taken 
prisoner at Preston, he was tried, condemned, arid executed. "His forfeited 
estate was bought back by his widow, and transmitted to their son. By the son 
of that son— now Viscount of Kenmure in consequence of the restoration of the 
title— Burns was on one occasion entertained at his romantic seat of Kennmre 
Castle, near New Galloway."'] 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa\ Willie ! away 

Oh Kenmure's on and awa' ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord, 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band ; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie ! 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, blood 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

Oh Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true — • 
v And that their faes shall ken. f oe8 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure's lord come hame. 

Here's him that's far awa', Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa' ! 
A i)d here's the flower that I love best— * 

The rose that's like the snaw 1 8Tloff 



412 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE RIGS O' BARLEY. 

Am, — Corn rigs are bonnie. 

[Anne Ronald, daughter of a farmer in Tarbolton parish, is generally con- 
sidered the heroine of this song. The poet's family was intimate with Mr. 
Ronald when residing at Lochlea, and the poet was a frequent visitor after they 
had removed to Mossgiel.] 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie, ridges, 

Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 

I held awa' to Annie : away 

The time new by wi' tentless heed, unnoticed 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed 

To see me thro' the barley. 

chorus. 

Corn rigs, and barley rigs, 

And corn rigs are bonnie : 
I'll ne'er forget that happy night 

Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 

The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly ; 
I set her down wi' right good will 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; knew, own 

I lov' d her most sincerely ; 
I kiss'd her owre and owre again, over 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace ; 

Her heart was beating rarely : 
My blessings on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley ; 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I ha'e been blythe wi' comrades dear : have 

I ha'e been merry drinkin' ; 
I ha'e been joyfu' gath'rin' gear ; money 

1 ha'e been happy thinkin' : 



BURNS'S SONGS. 418 



But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 

That happy night was worth them a', 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 



UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 
Air, — Cold blows the wind. 

[ "The chorus of this song is old ; the two stanzas are mine."— Burns. The 
ilr is old.] 

CHORUS. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, *now 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west, cold, from 

The drift is driving sairly ; sorely 

Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast, so 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely ; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn-— long 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 

Air, — The dusty miller. 

[An old song, modified by Burns for the Museum.'] 

Hey, the dusty miller, 

And his dusty coat ; 
He will win a shilling, 
Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 
That I get frae the miller. 



414 BUKNS'S SONGS, 

Hey, the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack ; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Filb the dusty peck — 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller ; 
I wad gi'e my coatie 
For the dusty miller. . 



blessings on 



ROBIN. 

Am,— Dainty Davie, but now more generally sung to— 
Oh gin ye vjere dead, gudeman. 

[Said to be founded on what actually took place at the poet's birth. Whether 
cr not, it is characteristic of such an event in humble life in the north.! 

There was a lad was born in Kyle, 

But whatna day o* whatna style, ; W hat 

I -doubt it's hardly worth the while 

To be sae nice wi' Eobin. so 

Robin was a rovin' boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin ; 
Robin was a rovin' boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane one 

Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win' January 

Blew hansel in on Robin. 

The gossip keekit in his loof, peeped, palm 

Quo' she, Wha lives will see the rroof, who 

This waly boy will be na coof ; %°^> no 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 

He'll ha'e misfortunes great and sma', hare 

But aye a heart aboon them a' 5 above 

He'll be a credit till us a'— to 
"We'll a' be proud o' Robin. 

But sure as three times three mak' nine, 

I see by ilka score and line, every 

This chap will dearly like our kin', lad 

So leeze me on thee, Robin. blessings 



BURNS'S SONGS. 415 

HEY FOE A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Air, — Balinamona ora. 

Awa' wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms, away 

The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 

Oh, gi'e me the lass that has acres o' charms, give 

Oh, gi'e me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. we ii stocked 

CHORUS. 

Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey for a dowei 

lass wi' a tocher, 
Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher — the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows, 

And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 

But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes, knolls 

Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes. ^e/ 601 * 6 *" 1. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, 

The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest ; 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, . , 

The langer ye ha'e them, the mair they're carest. more' 



OH THIS IS STO MY AIN LASSIE! 
Air, — Tliis is no my ain house. 

[There is an old song to this tune in Ramsay's Miscellany, beginning, "This is 
no mine ain house," &c] 

CHORUS. 

Oh this is no my ain lassie, own 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 

Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, well 

Kind love is in her e'e. eye 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place ; 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



4:16 BURXS'S SONGS. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall ; long 

And aye it charms my very saul, soul 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 

A thief sae paukie is my Jean, so sly 

To steal a blink, by a' unseen ; 

But gleg as light are lovers' een, quick, eyes 

When kind love is in the e'e. 

It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 



LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER. 

Air, — The Lothian lassie. 

[Altered from an earlier version communicated to the Museum co suit Mr, • 
Thomson's work.] 

Last May a braw wooer cam' down xhe lang glen, came, long 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ; sore, deafen 

I said there was naething I hated like men— nothing 

The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me, go with him 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 

He spak' o' the darts o' my bonnie black een, spoke, eyes 

And vow'd for my love he was dying ; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean — 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying, forgive 

The Lord forgi'e me for lying ! 

A weel-stockit mailen, himseP for the laird, \vm, 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers ; off 

I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or ear'd, let him know 

But thought I might ha'e waur offers, waur offers, have, worfcj 
But thought I might ha'e waur offers. 

But what wad ye think ? — in a fortnight or less, would 
The de'il tak' his taste to gae near her ! devil, go 



BURNS's SONGS. 417 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,* long lane 
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could 

bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the neist week as I fretted wi' care, next 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, went, fair 

An' wha but my fine fickle lover was there! 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, stared 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I ga'e him a blink, over, gave 

Lest neibors might say I was saucy ; neighbours 

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 
And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, Moving 11, 

Gin she had recover'd her hearin', if 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, Ported 18 " 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin', a-swearin', 
But, heavens ! how he fell a-swearin'. 

He begged, for guidsake, I wad be his wife, would 

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, must 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



I HA'E A WIFE O' MY AIN. 

Air, — Naebody. 

[Written at the time when he welcomed his wife and children home to Ellis- 
land. This period of his life he confessed to have been the happiest he ever 
experienced. There is an old but very inferior set of verses to the same tune. 3 

I ha'e a wife o' my ain — have, own 

I'll partake wi' naebody ; nobody 

* In the original MS. this line runs, " He up the Gateslack to my black cousin 
Bess." Mr. Thomson objected to this word, as well as to the word Dalgarnock 
in the next verse. Mr. Burns replied as follows :— 

11 Gateslack is the name of a particular place, a kind of passage up among the 
Lowther hills, on the confines of this county. Dalgarnock is algo the name of a 
romantic spot near the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a burial-ground. 
However, let the first run, He up the lang loan, <fcc." 

44 It is always a pity to throw out anything that gives locality to our poet's 
verses."--Ct/me. 



4:18 BURXS'S SONGS. 

I'll tak' cuckold frae nnne, 
I'll gi'e cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody ; 

I ha'e naething to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 



take, from 
none 
give 



I am naebody's lord — 

I'lFbe slave to naebody; 
I ha'e a gude braid sword, 

I'll tak' dunts frae naebody. 
I'll be merry an' free, 

I'll be sad for naebody ; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



good broad 
blows 



COMING THROUGH THE EYE. 
Air, — Coming through the rye. 

fAn improvement upon an old song, of which there were many verses, and 
many variations.] 

Coming through the rye, poor body, . 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, dirtied 

Coming through the rye. 

Jenny's a' wat, poor body, all wet 

Jenny's seldom dry; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body if 

Coming through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry ? 



Gin a body meet a body 
Coming through the glen, 

Gin a body kiss a body, 
Need the world ken ? 



fcnow 



BUENS'S SONGS. 419 

TO MARY IX HEAVEN. 
Air, — Death of Captain Cook. 

["This celebrated poem was composed by Bums, in September, 17S0, on the 
anniversary of the day on which lie heard of the death of his ea'ly love— Mary 
Campbell. According to Mrs. Burns, he spent that day, though labouring under 
cold, in the usual work of the harvest, and apparently in excellent spirits. But 
as the twilight deei e::ed. he appeared to grow 'very sad about something," and 
at length wandered out into tie barn yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety, 
followed him, entreating him in vain to observe that frost had set in, and to 
return to the fireside. On neing again and again requested to do so. he promised 
compliance— but still remained where he was, striding up and down s'owiy, and 
contemplating the sky, which was singularly clear and starry. At last Mrs. 
Burns found him stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes fixed on a beauti- 
ful planet 'that shone like another moon,' and prevailed on him to come in. 
He immediately, on entering the house, called for his desk, and wrote exactly 
as they now stand, with all the ease of one copying from memory, these sub- 
lime and pathetic verses."] 

Thou ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

"Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget ; 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love 1 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past — 
Thy image at our last embrace ; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbl'd shore, 

O'crhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene ; 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray- 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes* 

And fondly broods with miser care ! 
Time but th' impression stronger makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear* 



420 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



JOHN ANDERSON. 
Air, — John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beld, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
An* mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 
An' sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo. 



acquainted 

smooth 
bald 
snow 
head 



climbed, to- 
gether 
many, happy 

one another 

must 



THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. 

[This song was composed by Miss Cranstoun, sister of George Lord Cranstoun, 
a Lord of Session in Scotland. She became the second wife of Professor Dugald 
Stewart. There are five stanzas in all. "It wanted," says Burns, "four lines to 
make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added, and are the first four of the 
last stanza."] 

No cold reproach, no altered mien, 

Just what would make suspicion start ; 
No pause the dire extremes between, 

He made me blest and broke my heart 1 
[Hope from its only anchor torn, 

Neglected and neglecting all; 
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, 

The tears I shed must ever fall.] 



BURNS'S SONGS. 421 

MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 

Air — Lady BadinscotWs reel. 
[The title and some lines are old, the rest are by Burns.] 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, two 

She'll no be half sae saucy yet. so 

I rue the day I sought her, 0, 

I rue the day I sought her, ; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, who, not 

But he may say he's bought her, O ! 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, drop 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, so 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a* dry wi' drinking o't, 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ; 
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 

An' could na preach for thinking o't. 



LORD GREGORY. 

[Founded upon a beautiful old ballad called " The lass of Lochryau."— Loch- 
ryan is a bay which runs into Wigtonshire. Peter Pindar (Dr. Wolcot) had 
written a ballad on the same subject, and was heard to swear that Bums intended 
to rob him of the original merit of it.l 

Oh mirk, mirk is this midnight hour, dark 

An' loud the tempest's roar ; 
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tower, woful 

Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 

An' exile frae her father's ha', from 

An' a' for loving thee ; 

At least some pity on me shaw, show 

If love it may na be. not 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwine side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied? long 



122 BURNS'S SONGS. 

How aften didst thou pledge an' vow 
Thou wad for aye be mine ; 

And my fond heart, itsel' sae true, 
It ne'er mistrusted thine. 



often 
would 



Hard is thy hp.art, Lord Gregory, 

An' flinty is thy breast : 
Thou dart of heaven that fiashest by, 

Oh wilt thou give me rest ! 

Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victim see ! 
But spare ah' pardon my fause love, 

His wran^s to Heaven an J me ! 



wrongs 



MARY MORISON. 

Air, — Bide ye yet ; but sometimes sung to The miller. 

[ " One of my juvenile works."— Burns. 

44 Of all the productions of Bums, the pathetic and serious love songs which he 
has left behind him in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take 
the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind. Suck are the lines to Mary 
Morison, &c"—UuzliU.] 



Oh Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 
Those smiles an' glances let me see, 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
Tho' this was fair, an' that was braw, 

An' yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh VI, an' said amanir them a', 

tk Ye are na Mary A 1 orison." 



would, bear 

dust 
from 



last night 
went 



fine 



BTJRNS's SONGS. 423 

Oh Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee ? whose, fault 

If love for love thou wilt na gi'e, not give 

At least be pity on me shown ; 
A thought ungentle canna be cannot 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA*. 

Air, — Here's a health to them that's awa\ 

[Found among the poet's papers after his death, and first published in thf§ 
complete form in the Scots Magazine for January, 1818. It is a kind of parody 
on a song in the Museum.'] 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 

An' wha winna wish gude luck to our cause, 

May never gude luck be their fa' ! 

It's gude to be merry an' wise, 

It's gude to be honest an' true, 

It's gude to support Caledonia's* cause, 

An 1 bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 

Here's a health to Charlie, the chief o* the clan, 

Altho' that his band be sma\ 

May liberty meet wl' success ! 

May prudence protect her frae evil ! 

May tyrants an' tyranny tine in the mist, 

An' wander their way to the devil ! 



away 

-will not, good 
befall them 



(whig 
colours) 



(Fox) 



from 
be lost 



Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 

Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 

That lives at the lug o' the law ; 

Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 

Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be none 

heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. whom, indi 



(Lord 
Erskine) 
ear 
would 



424 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



Here's a health to them that's awa', 

Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 

.Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a chieftain worth gowd, gold 

Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw ! snow 

Here's Mends on both sides of the Forth, 

An' friends on both sides of the Tweed ; 

An' wha wad betray old Albion's rights, 

May they never eat of her bread. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
Air, — The birks of Abergeldy, 






[ " I composed these stanzas standing nnder the falls of Aberfeldy, at or near 
Moness, Perthshire."— Burns. An improvement upon an old song called the 
Birks of Abergeldy — a place onDeesidein Aberdeenshire. Mr. Cunningham says 
that the air is given as Scotch in Playford's Dancing Master, a publication of the 
age of the Commonwealth.] 

CHORUS. 

Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 
Will ye go, will ye go ; 
Bonnie lassie, will ye go, 

To the birks of Aberfeldy? birches 

jNow simmer blinks on flowery braes, summer 

And o'er the crystal streamlet plays ; 
Come, let ns spend the lightsome days 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The little birdies blythely sing, 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing, hang 

Or lightly flit on wanton wing 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, 
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, woods 

The birks of Aberfeldy. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, cascades 

An' rising, weets wi' misty showers wets 

The birks of Aberfeldy. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 425 

Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er ,shall draw a wish frae me, from 

Supremely blest wi' love an' thee, 
In the birks of Aberfeldy. 



A KED EED KOSE. 

Air, — Graham's strathspey. 

[Burns derived the beautiful ideas of this song from one written by Liemt. 
flinders, as a farewell to his sweetheart] 

Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose, love 

That's newly sprung in June : 
Oh, my luve's like the melodie, 

That's sweetly played in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. go 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only luve ! well 

And fare thee weel a while ! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



THE EXCISEMAN. 
Air, — The deHl cam fiddling through the town. 

[At a meeting of his brother excisemen in Dumfries, Burns being called upon 
for a song, handed these verses extempore to the president, written on the back 
of a letter.— Curried 

The de'il cam' fiddling through the town, devil came 

An' danced awa wi the Exciseman, 
And ilka wife cries — " Auld Mahoun, every, old 

I wish you luck o' the prize, man I" 



±2Q burxs's SOXGS. 

The de'il's awa', the de'il's aW, 
The dell's awa' wi 1 the Exciseman; 

He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa', 
He's danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 

"We'll mak' our maut, we'll brew our drink, malt 

We'll dance, an' sing, an' rejoice, man ; 
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black de'il great 
That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. 
The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 

The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa', 
He's danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. 

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man ; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam' to the land one 

Was — the de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman. 
The de'il's awa', the de'il's awa', 

The de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's danc'd awa', he's danc'd awa, 
He's danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman. 



SOMEBODY. 
Air, — For the sake of somebody. 

[Ramsay's "For the sake o' somebody," suggested the following to Burns, 
who retained two or three lines of the hist stanzaJ 

My heart is sair — I dare na tell — sore, not 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
I could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I could range the world around, 
For the salve o' somebody ! 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

Oh, sweetly smile on somebody! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free, from, every 

And send me safe my somebody. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 427 

Oh-hon, for somebody ! 
Oh-hey, for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ! would 

For the sake of somebody ! 



■ 
I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

Am, — Til gae nae mair to yon town, 
[The heroine of this song was Jean Armour, the poet's future wife.] 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, call 

And by yon garden green, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean, again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, n £now a 

'What brings me back the gate again, way 

But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass, 

And stowlins we sail meet again. stealthily 

She'll wander by the aiken tree, oaken 

When trystin-time draws near again ; 
And when her lovely form I see, 

Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again i indeed 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green again : 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



OH WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 
Air, — Til gae nae mair to yon town. 

[The original version of this son?, composed in honour of his "Bonnie Jean," 
appeared in the Museum. It was niti-i wards altered to express the supposed 
feelings of the late Mr. Oswald of Auchincruive. lespectiiiK his beautiful and 
beloved wife, Lucy Johnston. She died of consumption at Lisbon, Jan., 1796.] 

On, wat ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin' sun upon? 
The fairest dame's in yon town, 

That e'enin' sun is shining on. 



428 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, wood 

She wanders by yon spreading tree ; 

How blest, ye flow'rs that round her blaw, blow 

Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! eye 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing, 

And welcome in the blooming year ! 
And doubly welcome be the spring, 

The season to my Lucy dear. 

The sun blinks blythe in yon town, 

And on you bonnie braes of Ayr ! liiils 

But my delight in yon town, 

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a* the charms 

O' Paradise could yield me joy ; 
But gi'e me Lucy in my arms, gi V6 

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky ! 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, would 

Tho' raging winter rent the air ; 
And she a lovely little flow'r, 

That I would tent and shelter there. tend 

Oh sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon ; g° nQ 

A fairer than's in yon town 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 
I careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me — spare me, Lucy dear ! 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 

Ae thought from her shall ne'er depart, one, from 

And she — as fairest in her form ! 

She has the truest, kindest heart ! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 429 

MY SPOUSE, NANCY. 
Air, — My jo JaneU 

[An imitation of, but a vast improvement on Ramsay's "My jo Janet."] 

" Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idly rave, sir ; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir." 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Is it man, or woman, say, 

My spouse, Nancy ? " 

" If 'tis still the lordly word, 

Service and obedience ; 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance ! " 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy, 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

u My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the dust, 

Think, think how you will bear it." 

" I will hope and trust in heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy, ■ 

Strength to bear it will be given, 
My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, sir, from the silent dead, 

Still I'll try to daunt you ; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you." 

41 I'll wed another like my clear, 

Nancy, Nancy ; 
Then all hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse, Nancy. " 



430 BURNS'S SONGS. 

CONTENTED Wr LITTLE. 
Air, — Lumps d 1 pudding. 

["Written, it is said, when the poet's prospects looked a little brighter than 
usual, when, as Cunningham expresses it, "the frozen finger of the Excise 
pointed to a supervisorship."J 

Contented wi' little, an' cantie wi' mair, cheerful, 

"Whene'er I forgather wi 1 sorrow an' care, meet 6 

I gi'e them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, g* vr e, stroke, 

Wi' a cog o' gude swats, an' an auld Scottish sang. bowE^ood 

ale 

I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought ; sometimes 
But man is a sodger, an' life is a faught : soldier, fight 

My mirth an' good humour are coin in my pouch, 
An' my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare no 
touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', ^Slu m?^ 

A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' : solders 
"When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 

"Wha the de'il ever thinks o' the road he has past ? who, devil 

Blind chance, let her snapper an' stoyte on her way; st t ^JgJ. e ' 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae ; from, go 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure, or pain, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, an' welcome. again ! " worst 



LASSIE WP THE LINT- WHITE LOCKS. 

Air, — Rotliiemur die's rant. 

[This piece has at least the merit cf being a regular pastoral : the vernal 
morn, the summer noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter night, are 
regularly rounded.— Burns to Thomso.i.] 

CHORUS. 

Lassie wi' the lint- white locks, 

Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, tend 

Wilt thou be my dearie, ? 



BURXS'S SOKGS. 

Now Nature deeds the flowery lea, 

An 1 a' is young an' sweet like thee: 

Oh, wilt thou share its joys wi' me, 

An' say thou'lt be my dearie, O ? 

An' when the welcome simmer shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie, O. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
An' talk o' love, my dearie, O. 

An' when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest, 
Enclasped to my faithful breast, 
I'll comfort thee, my dearie, O. 



431 



clothes 



summer 
each 



homeward 



MY AIN KIND DEAEIE, O. 

Air, — The lea rig, 

[Based upon an old song.] 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin'* time is near, my jo ; 
An' owsen frae the furrow'd field oxen, from 

Return sae dowf an' weary, O ; lethargic 

Down by the burn, where scented birks f birches 

Wi* dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea rig, grassy ridge 

My ain kind dearie, O. own 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, darkest 

I'd rove, an' ne'er be earie, O, frightened 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, went 
My ain kind dearie, O. 

* The time of collecting the sheep in the pens to be milked. 
t Variation— lirken buds. 



432 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Altho' the night was ne'er sae wild, 
An' I were ne'er sae wearie, O, 

I'd meet thee on the lea rig, 
My ain kind dearie, O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo : 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my jo ; 
Gi'e me the hour o' gloamin' gray, 

It mak's my heart sae cheery, O, 
To meet thee on the lea rig, 

My ain kind dearie, O. 



loves 



move 

give, twilight 

makes 



BONNIE LESLEY. 
Air, — The collier's bonnie lassie. 

t"The following rhapsody I composed the other day on a charming Ayrshire 
girl, Miss Lesley Bailie (afterwards Mrs. Cumming, of Logie), as she passed 
through this place (Dumfries) to England."— Burns to Thomson. .] 



Oh saw ye bonnie Lesley, 
As she gaed owre the border ? 

She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 



went over 
gon 



To see her is to love her, 
An* love but her for ever ; 

For nature made her what she is, 
An' never made anither ! 



another 



Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 
Thy subjects we, before thee ; 

Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 



The de'il he could na scaith thee, 
Or aught that wad belang thee ; 

He'd look into thy bonnie face, 
An* say, ct I canna wrang thee!" 



devil, not 
harm 

would be- 
long to 

cannot 
wrong 



BURNS'S SOtfGS. 



433 



The powers aboon will tent thee : 
Misfortune sha' na steer thee ; 

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we ha'e a lass 

There's nane again sae bonnie. 



ubove, tend 
shall not stir 



boast, have 
none 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 
Air, — The deuks dang o'er my daddie. 

[ M My Highland lassie was a warm hearted charming young creature as ever 
blest a man with generous love."— .Saras.] 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,* no, so 

Shall ever be my muse's care : 

Their titles a' are empty show ; 

Gi'e me my Highland lassie, O. give 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 

Aboon the plains sae rushy, O, above 

I set me down wi' right good will, 

To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

Oh, were yon hills an' valleys mine, 
Yon palace an' yon gardens fine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me, 

An' I maun cross the raging sea ; must 

But while my crimson currents flow, 

I'll love my Highland lassie, 0. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful Highland lassie, 0. 

* Gentle is here used in opposition to simple, in the Scottish and old English 
sense of the word. Nae gentle dames— no high-blooded.— Currie. 



M 



434 burxs's SONGS. 

For lier I'll dare the billows' roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore, 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 

She has my heart, she has my hand, 
By sacred truth an' honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low. 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O ! 
Farewell the plain sae rushy, ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 



POWERS CELESTIAL! 
Air, — Blue bonnets. 

[In the poet's MS. this s^ng is called "A Prayer for Mary"— meaning in aU 
likelihood Mary CampbelL] 

Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes 1 wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, so 

Fair and faultless as your own, 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast, 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels ! oh protect her, 

AVhen in distant lands I roam ; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me, 

Make her bosom still my home, 



BURNS'S SOXGS. 435 

FKOM THEE, ELIZA. 

Air, — Gilder oy ; or Donald. 

V To the heroine of this song the poet's thoughts turned when, rejected by 
Jean Armour, he wrote his pathetic Lament. . . . Her name was Elizabeth 
Baibour, handsome rather than beautiful very lively, and of ready wit."— 
Cunningham.'} 

From thee, Eliza, I must go, 

And from my native shore, 
The cruel Fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 

Between my love and me, 
They never, never can divide 

My heart and soul from thee ! 

Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that I adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
The latest throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest si^h ! 



MENIE. 

Air, — Johnny's grey ureeks. 

Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues, 
Iler leafy locks wave in the breeze, 
All freshly steep' d in morning dews. 

An' maun I still on Menie doat,* must 

An' bear the scorn that's in her e'e? eye 

For it's jet, jet black, an' like a hawk, 

An' winna let a body be. will not 

* This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburglv- 
particular friend of the author's— 8. &. 



436 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring ; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis an' the lintwhite sing. 

The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks ; 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 



blow 

wood 
thrush, linnet 



heedful 
one wakes 



The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims, 
An' every thing is blest but I. 

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, 
An' owre the moorland whistles shrill ; 

Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

An 1 when the lark, 'tween light an' dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 

An' mounts an' sings on flittering wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, 
An' raging bend the naked tree : 

Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When nature all is sad like me ! 



among 



closes, open- 
ing in fold 
over 



awakes 



ghost, home- 
ward 



I AM MY MAMMY'S AE BAIRN. 

Air, — Tm owre young to marry yet. 
[The title and part of the chorus of this song are old.] 

I am my mammy's ae bairn, 

Wi' unco folk 1 weary, Sir ; 
An' if I gang to your house, 

I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir. 

I'm owre young to marry yet ; 
I'm owre young to marry yet ; 



mother's 
only child 
strange 

go 

afraid, 
gloomy 

too 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



437 



I'm owre young — 'twad be a sin 
To tak' me frae my mammy yet. 

Hallowmas is come an' gane, 
The nights are lang in winter, Sir ; 

An' you an' I in wedlock's bands, 
In trouth I dare na venture, Sir. 

Fu' loud an' shrill the frosty wind 

Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir ; 

But if ye come this gate again, 
I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 



it would 
from 

gone 
long 

truth, not 



blows, timber 
road 

older, in sum- 
mer 



HOW LANG AN' DREARY IS THE NIGHT. 

Air, — Cauld kail in Aberdeen. 

[A re-arrangement for Thomson's Scottish Melodies of a previous version.] 

How lang an' dreary is the night, 

When I am frae my dearie ; 
I restless lie frae e'en to morn, 

Though I were ne'er sae weary. 



long 
from 

so 



For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; lonely 

An' oh, her dreams are eerie ; gloomy 

An' oh, her widow'd heart is sair, sore 
That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
An' now what seas between us roar — 

How can I be but eerie ? 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours ! 

The joyless day how dreary! 
It was na sae ye glinted by, not, glanced 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

For oh ! her lanely nights are lang ; 

An' oh, her dreams are eerie ; 
An' oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 



438 BURNS'S POEMS. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

[JamesDnrmmonrt, son of William, fourth Viscount of Strath allan, who fell on 
the insurgent side at the battle of Cullodeu, escaped with difficulty, and died 
abroad, in exile. "The air," says Burns, "is the composition cf one of the 
worthiest and best hearted men living— Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in 
Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of Jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate 
the words and air to that cause. To tell the truth, except when my passions 
were heated by some accidental cause, my Jacobitism was merely by way of 
vive la bagatelle.] 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 

Busy haunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes softly blowing, 

Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly waged, 

But the heavens denied success. 

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend : 
The wide world is all before us — ■ 

But a world without a friend ! 



POOETITH CAULD. 

Air, — I had a horse. 

[Jean Lorimer of Kemmis hall, Kirkcudbrightshire, was the subject of this 
fine song J 

Oh poortith cauld, and restless love, poverty, cold 

Ye wreck my peace between ye ; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive, 

An 'twere na for my Jeanie. not 

Oh why should fate sic pleasure have, such 

Life's dearest biinds untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love, so 

Depend on Fortune's shining ? 



BTJENS'S SOXGS. 



439 



This warld's wcaltli when I think on, 
Its pride and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie on silly coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
Oh why, &c. 

Her een sae bonnie blue betray 
How she repays my passion ; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye, 
She talks of rank and fashion. 
Oh why, &c, 

Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
Oh wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am ? 
Oh why, &c. 

How blest the humble cottar's fate ! 

He wooes his simple dearie ; 
The silly bogles, wealth and state, 

Can never make them eerie. 
Oh why, &c. 



world's 
rest 



eyes 
repetition 



who 



ghosts 
frightened 



GALA WATER. 
Aik, — Gala Water. 

[An improvement on an old ballad. Published in Thomson's Scottish 
Melodies.] 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 
That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 

But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 
Can match the lads o' Gala Water. 

But there is ane, a secret ane, 

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better : 
And I'll be his and he'll be mine, 

The bonnie lad o' Gala Water. 

Altho' his daddie was nae laird, 

And tho' I ha'e na meikle tocher ; 
Yet rich in kindest, truest love, 

We'll tent our Hocks by Gala Water. 



woods 



one 
above, love. 



father, no 
have not 

much 

dower 

end 



410 BURNS'S SONGS. 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 

That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure : bought 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 

Oh that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! world's 






WANDERING WILLIE. 

Air, — Here awa\ there awa\ 

[Based upon an old song published by Herd. Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park i* 
said to have been the heroine.] 

Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie, away 

Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame ; hold 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, own 
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same. 

Winter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting, cold 

Fears for my Willie brought tears in my e'e ; eye 

Welcome now simmer and welcome my Willie, summer 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers, 
How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! waken 

And waft my dear Willie ance mair to my arms ! once more 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, not 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main ! 
May I never see it, may I never trow it, 
But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain ! 



THE FAREWELL 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, 

TARBOLTON. 

Air, — Good night, and joy be wi 1 you a\ 

Adieu ! a heart-warm fond adieu ! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, 

Companions of my social joy : 



BTJRNS'S SONGS. 

Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, 
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba\ 

With melting heart, and brimful eye, 
I'll mind you still, tho' far awa\ 

Oft have I met your social band, 

An 1 spent the cheerful, festive night ; 
Oft, honour' d with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
An' by that hieroglyphic bright, 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa'. 

May freedom, harmony, and love 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' omniscient eye above, 

The glorious Architect divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa\ 

And you, farewell ! whose merits claim, 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request, permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round — I ask it with a tear — 

To him, the Bard that's far awa\ 



44! 



slippery ball 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. 
Air, — The braes o' Ballochmyle. 

[ u Composed on the amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord's leaving 
Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfortunes obliged him to sell the estate," — 
Burns. Maria was Miss Whitefoord. Claud Alexander, Esq., whose sister was 
the celebrated "Bonnie lass of Ballochmyle," purchased the property.] 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen, 
The flowers decay 'd on Catrine lea, 



442 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green, no lark 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. eye 

Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, 

And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again yell flourish fresh and fair ; 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair no more 

Shall birdie charm, or flow'ret smile ; 
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel ! sweet Ballochmyle ! 



THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE. 

Air, — Miss Forties's farewell to Banff; or Johnnie's grey 

IreeJcs. 

[Miss Wilhclmina Alexander, sister of Claud Alexander, Esq., of Ballochmyle, 
was the subject of this beautiful song. The poet met her by chance in the woods 
near her father's mansion on the banks of the Ayr— summer, 17^6. He sent the 
song: to Miss Alexander, requesting permission to publish it in the second 
edition of his poems. She took no notice of it at the time, but afterwards 
fully appreciated the honour conferred upon her.] 

'Twas even — the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearls hang, 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

An' bore its fragrant sweets alang : a i ong 

In ev'ry glen the mavis sang, thrush 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When, musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy ; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her air like nature's vernal smile, 
Perfection whisper 'd, passing by, 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle I 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild ; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wandVing in the lonely wild : 
But woman, nature's darling child! 

There all her charms she does compile ; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain, 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine ; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmvlo. 



44S 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Am, — TJie weaver and Ids shuttle, 0. 

[This autobiographical sons contains allusions to much of the author's early 
history. "It is a wild rhapsody," he says, -'miserably deficient in versifica- 
tion : *but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, I have a par- 
ticular pleasure in conning it over."] 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, 
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O ; 
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O ; 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth re- 
garding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O ; 
Tho* to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charm- 
U O: 



444 BURNS'S SONGS. 

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, ; 
Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation, O. 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O ; 
Some cause unseen still stept between to frustrate each 

endeavour, O. 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd ; sometimes by friends 

forsaken, O : 
And when my hope was at the top I still was worst mis- 
taken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last with fortune's vain 
delusion, O, 

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this 
conclusion, — 

The past was bad, and the future hid ; its good or ill un- 
tried, O ; 

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would 
enjoy it, 0. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend 

me, O ; 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain 

me, O : 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me 

early, O ; 
For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune 

fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd 

to wander, O, 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O. 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain 

or sorrow, ! 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, 0, 
Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her 

wonted malice, O ; 
Imake indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O ; 
But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O, 
Some unforeseen misfortune comer, gen'rally upon me, : 



BURNS'S SONGS. 445 

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd 
folly, O ; 

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melan- 
choly, 0. 

All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting 

ardour, O, 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view 

the farther, O : 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O, 
A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O. 



THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE. 
Air,— Humours of Glen. 

[Written in honour of his wife, who sung it to him so beautifully that he 
declared it one of his luckiest lyrics.] 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume ; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, fern 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. long 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, 

Where the blue-bell an' gowan lurk lowly unseen ; daisy 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 

A*listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. oft 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

An' cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; cold 

Their sweet scented woodlands that skirt the proud 
palace, 
What are they? — the haunt of the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling foun- 
tains, 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, 

Save love's willing fetters — the chains o' his Jean t 



446 BURNS'S SONGS. 

'TWAS NA HER BONNIE BLUE EE WAS MY 
RUIN. 

Air, — Laddie, lie near me. 

[For this beautiful song we are indebted to Jean Lorimcr. It is true that 
Mary is wrought into the texture of the verse; but copies have been seen with 
the first line of the last verse running thus: — " Jeauie, I'm thine, &c."—Cun~ 
ningham.] 

'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; not, eye 

Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing ; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebocly did mind us, nobody 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kind- stolen 
ness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, sore 

Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; must 

But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS! 

[Altered from an old English song.] 
Air,— John Anderson, my jo, 

How cruel are the parents, 

Who riches only prize ; 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile, the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife ; — 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 

The rav'ning hawk pursuing, 
The trembling dove thus Hies, 

To shun impelling rain 
A while her pinions tries ? 



BURNS'S SONGS, 447 



Till of escape despairing, 
No shelter or retreat, 

Sbe trusts the ruthless falconer, 
And drops beneath his feet. 



MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY FASHION. 

Am, — Deil tak 1 the wars. 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compar'd with real passion, 

Poor is all that princely pride. 

What are the showy treasures ? 

What are the noisy pleasures ? 
The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art : 

The polish'd jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grondeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming, 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing soul! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll. 



I DREAM'D I LAY. 

["These two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen: they are among the 
oldest of my printed pieces."— B urns.] 

I dkeam'd I lay where flowers were springing 
Gaily in the sunny beam ; 






448 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Listening to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring ; 
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling drumlie wave. muddy 

Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasure I enjoyed ; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming, long, before 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, 

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ; 
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me, many 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 



HANDSOME NELL. 
Air, — 1 am a man unmarried. 

[The first attempt of Bums in verse, composed in his sixteenth year, on a 
"bonnie sweet sonsie lass," his companion on the harvest field. "This composi- 
tion," says the poet, " was the first of my performances, and done at an early 
period of life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity, un- 
acquainted and un corrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The perform- 
ance is very puerile and silly, but I am always pleased with it, as it recalls to 
my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was 
sincere." The heroine of the song was Nelly Bfair, a servant in the house of a 
friend of his, an extensive land-proprietor hi Ayrshire.] 

Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still ; 
An' whilst that honour warms my breast 
„ I'll love my handsome Nell. 

As bonnie lasses I ha'e seen, have 

An' mony full as braw ; many, fine 

But for a modest, gracefu' mien, 
The like I never saw. 

A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, eye 

But without some better qualities, 

She's no the lass for me. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 449 

But Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

An', what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

An' fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 

An' then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look weel. makes any, 

well 

A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart ; 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 



YON WILD, MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Air, — Yon wild mossy mountains. 

[•* This tune is by Oswald : the song alludes to a part of my private history, 
which it is of no consequence to the world to know." — Burns. *The heroine, it is 
thought, is Mary Campbell, or more likely Nannie, who dwelt "behind yon hills 
where Lugar flows."] 

Yon wild, mossy mountains, sae lofty and wide, so 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his 
reed. 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 
his reed. 

Not Gowrie's rich valleys, nor Forth's sunny shores, 

To me ha'e the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors hav e 



450 BURNS'S SONGS. 

For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, lonely 

Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream, 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, these 



But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling 

e'e, 
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her 

arms, 
Oh, these are my lassie's all- conquering charms ! 

And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her 
arms, 

Oh, these are my lassie's all- conquering charms! 



each, own 
valley 



Ilk stream foaming down it's ain green, narrow 

strath ; 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' love. 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded. flee the swift hours o' 
love. 



She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair ; 

O' nice education but sma' is her share ; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. lovQ 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize, must 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ! 
And when wit and refinement ha'e polish'd her darts, 
They dazzle our een, as they flee to our hearts. 

And when wit and refinement ha'e polish'd her 
darts, 

They dazzle our een as they flee to our hearts. 



eye 



BURNS'S SONGS. 451 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Air, — Robie donna gorach. 

[The poet imagines himself an exile from his native land, and so lamenting 
the scenes and companions of his early days.] 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea, < 

Where royal cities stately stand ; 
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me, 

Where Cummins ance had high command ; once 
When shall I see that honour' d land, 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom I 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales, 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom 1 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom, 

Far frae thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



TAM GLEN. 

Air/ — Tarn Glen. 

[Of the old song, u Tarn Glen," nothing remains save a portion of the chorua. 
The air is older than the song.] 

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie ! 

Some counsel unto me come len', 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 

I'm thinking wi 7 sic a braw fellow such, fine 

In poortith I might make a fen' ; poverty 

What care I in riches to wallow, 

If I maunna marry Tarn Glen ? must not 

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, 
44 Guid day to you, brute !" he comes ben ', soofl, m 



452 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 

But when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me, 
But wha can think sae o' Tarn Glen ? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gi'e me guid hunder marks ten : 

But if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him, 
Oh wha will I get but Tarn Glen. 

Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, 
My heart to my mou' gi'ed a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing, 
And thrice it was written — Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin' 
My droukit sark sleeve, as ye ken ; 

His likeness cam' up the house staukin', 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear tittie ! don't tarry — 
I'll gi'e you my bonnie black hen, 

Gif ye will advise me to marry 
The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 



boasts, blows 
silver 



mother 



who, so 

father, if 

give,hundred 

must 



last night 
gave, leap 
one 



waking 
drenched 
shift 
stalking 
breeches 



give 

if 

love 






OH, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL! 

Air— My love is lost to me. 

["This air is Oswald's: the song I made out of compliment to Mrs. Burns."— 
Burns.] 

Oh, were I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my nil ; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well, must 

My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' ; 
On Corsincon I'll glow'r an' spell, stare 

An' write how dear I love thee. 



burns's SOXGS. 453 

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 

For a' the lee-lang simmer's day livelong sum- 

I couldna sing, I couldna say, could not 

How much, how dear I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green, 
Thv waist sae limp, thy limbs sae clean, n t eat » v, ' cl1 

ti * j. 4.' r j-tl • i turned 

Any tempting lips, thy roguish een — eyes 

By heaven an' earth I love thee ! 

By night, by day, a-field, at hame, home 

The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ; 
An' aye I muse an' sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last weary sand was run ; 

Till then — and then I love thee. 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Air, — Captain CKean. 

["As I was riding through a tract of melancholy joyless moors, between Gal- 
loway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to psalms and 
hymns and spiritual songs, and Captain O'Kean coming at length into my head 
I tried these words to it" —Burns to Cieghorn. It is supposed to be sung by 
the unfortunate Charles after the battle of Culloden.] 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale ; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 

While the lingering moments are numbered by care ? 
No flow'rs gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn ; 

My brave gallant friends ! 'tis your ruin I mourn ; 
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial — 

Alas ! I can make you no sweeter return ! 



454 



BURNS's SONGS* 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 
Air, — Young Jockey. 

[With the exception of three or four lines of an old socg of the same name, 
this is the composition of Burns.] 

Young Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa' : away 

Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, plough 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha'. 
He roosed my een, sae bonnie blue, praised, eyes 

He roosed my waist, sae genty sma,' so elegantly 

An' aye my heart cam' to my niou' mouth 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind an' weet, thro' frost an' snaw : wet, snow 

An' o'er the lea I leuk fu' fain, look 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. oxen 

An 1 aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a', 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain, own 

As land's he has a breath to draw. 



THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. 

Air, — The Carrier onian rant. 

[An old song, abridged and improved hy Burns.] 

" Oh cam' ye here the fight to shun. 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man ? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir, 

An 1 did the battle see, man ? " 
" I saw the battle, sair an' tough, 
An' reekin' red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, ga'ed sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, an 7 see the cluds, 
0' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man. 



sore 
channel 

#ave sigh 
knocks, 
clouds 

from, clothes 
who grasped 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



455 



" The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slaw, man ; 
They rush'd an' push'd, an' bluid outgush'd, 

An' mony a bouk did fa', man : 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : 
They hack'd an' hash'd, while broadswords clash'd, 
An' thro' they dash'd, an' hew'd, an' smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa', man. 



not slow 
blood 
many, corpse 

believe 



fated 



" Bat had you seen the philabegs, 

An' skyrin tartan trews, man ; 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs, 

An' covenant true blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang an' large, 
When bayonets opposed the targe, 
An' thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 
They fled like frighted doos, man." 



kilts 
shining 
trousers 



" Oh how de'il, Tarn, can that be true ? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horsemen back to Forth, man ; 
An' at Dunblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
An' straught to Stirling winged their flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut ; 
An' mony a huntit, poor red coat, 

For fear amaist did swarf, man ! " 

" My sister Kate cam' up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man : 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neibors' blood to spill ; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose — all crying woes ; 
An' so it goes you see, man. 



went 



straight 

many, hunt- 
ed 

almost, 
swoon 



porridge 

no 

neighbours 

dishes 



i 



456 BURNS'S SONGS. 

" They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 

Amang the Highland clans, man : 
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man : 
Now wad ye sing this double fight, would 

Some fell for wrang, an' some for right ; wrong 

But mony bade the world gude-night ; good 

Then ye may tell how pell an' mell, 
By red claymores, an' muskets' knell, 
Wi' dying yell the Tories fell, 

An' Whigs to hell did flee, man." 



SONG COMPOSED IN AUGUST. 

Air, — 1 had a horse, I had nae mair; or, poortlth cauld. 

[There is some obscurity about the heroineship of this song. It lies between 
"Montgomery's Peggy " and Margaret Thomson, the charming filette, who at 
an earlier period overset the poet's " trigonometiy and sent him off at a tangent 
from the sphere of his studies."] 

Now westlin winds an' slaught'ring guns western 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather : among 

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain, 

Delights the weary farmer ; 
And the moon shines bright when I rove at night 

To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells : 

The plover loves the mountains ; 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells ; 

The soaring hern the fountains : heron 

Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, wood-pigeon 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 

Thus every kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender ; 
Some social join, the leagues combine \ 

Some solitary wander : 






457 



Avaunt, away ! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion : 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring gory pinion. 

But Peggy, dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow ; 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading green and yellow : 
Come, let us stray our gladsome way, 

An' view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

An' every happy creature. 

We'll gently walk an' sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE LASS. 

Air, — Laggan barn, 
[A song composed at an early period of life, trimmed up for the Museum."] 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass, 

Guid night, an' joy be wi' thee ; good 

I'll come nae mair to thy bower-door, no more 

To tell thee that I lo'e thee. love 

Oh dinna think, my pretty pink, do not 

But I can live without thee : 
I vow an' swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. long 

Thou'rt aye sae free informing me so 

Thou hast nae mind to marry ; no 

I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time ha'e I to tarry. have 



±58 BURNS's SONGS. 

I ken thy friends try ilka means every 

Frae wedlock to delay thee ; from 

Depending on some higher chance — 
But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that does never grieve me ; 
But I'm as free as ony he; 

Sma' siller will relieve me. silver 

I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, scarcity^ 

As lang's I get employment. 



forebode 



But far off fowls ha'e feathers fair, 

An' aye until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. worse 

But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright, twelve 

My dear, I'll come an' see thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, loves, well 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Air, — The last time I came o'er the muir; or, Peggy, I must 
love thee. 

[Probably Montgomery's Peggy. I 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them ; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 



BURNS'S SONGS. 459 

Her smile is, as the evening, mild, 

When feather'd tribes are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her, 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain, 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye powers of honour, love, and truth, 

From every ill defend her ; 
Inspire the highly- favour' d youth, 

The destinies intend her : 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom, 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 
Air, — Macplierson's rant. 

[James MTherson, a noted Highland freebooter, and of uncommon personal 
strength, after holding the countiesof Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray, in fear tor some 
years, was seized by Duff of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of File, tried before the 
sheriff of Banffshire (November 7, 1700), along with certain gipsies who had been 
taken in his company, and executed (Xov. 16) on the Gallow hill of Banff. 
While he lay in prison under sentence of death, he composed a song and an 
appropriate air ; this tune, when brought to the place of execution, he played on 
his violin, on which he was an excellent performer, and then asked if any friend 
was present who would accept the instrument as a gift. No one coming for- 
ward, he indignantly broke the violin in pieces, and threw himself from the fatal 
ladder.] 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretches destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 
On yonder gallows-tree. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, so 

Sae dauntingly gaed he ; wen t 

He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round, a tune 
JBelow the gallows-tree. 



BUENS'S SONGS. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath !— 

On mony a bloody plain, 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Untie these bands from oft my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no a man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie ; 
It burns my heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Now farewell light — thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 



THE GLOOMY OTGHT IS GATHERING- FAST. 

Air, — Roslin Castle ; or, HugMe Graham. 

["I composed this song as I convoyed my chest so far on the road to Greenock, 
where I was to embark in a few days for Jamaica (November, 17S6). I meant 
it as my farewell dirge to my native land. "—Burns. Professor Walker makes 
the following statement regarding it:— "I requested him to communicate some 
of his unpublished poems, and he recited his farewell song to the Banks of Ayr, 
introducing it with a description of the circumstances in which it was composed, 
more striking than the poem itself. He had left Dr. Lawrie's family, after a 
visit, which he expected to be the last, and on his way home had to cross a wide 
stretch of solitary moor. ■ His mind was strongly affected by parting for ever 
with a scene where he had tasted so much elegant and social pleasure ; and, de- 
pressed by the contrasted gloom of his prospects, the aspect of nature harmonized 
with his feelings : it was a lowering and heavy evening in the end of autumn. 
The wind was up, and whistled through the rushes and long spear- grass which 
bent before it. The clouds were driving across the sky; and cold pelting 
showers at intervals added discomfort of body to cheerlessness of mind. Under 
these circumstances, and in this frame, Burns composed his poem.' ] 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ; 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain ; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure ; 
While here I wander prest with care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr, 



BURNS'S SONGS. 461 

The autumn mourns her rip'ning corn, 
By early winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave — 
I think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billows roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore : 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear ! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierc'd with many a wound ; 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales ; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! farewell, my foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare ; 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr ! 



OH LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET? 

Aie, — Let me in this ae night, 

[An old song, modified and improved.] 

Oh lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 
Or art thou waukin', I would wit ? know 

For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

Oh let me in this ae night, one 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

Oh rise and let me in, jo ! 



162 



BTJRNS'S SONGS. 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, wet 

Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet ; no 

Tak' pity on my weary feet, take 
And shield me frae the rain, jo, 

The bitter blast that round me blaws blows 

Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause coldness 

Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 



HER ANSWER. 

Sung to the same air. 

Oh tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ; 
Gae back the gait ye cam' again, 
I winna let you in, jo ! 



not 
cold 
go, road, 

came 
will not 



CHORUS. 



I tell you now this ae night, 
This ae, ae, ae night ; 

An' ance for a' this ae night, 
I winna let you in, jo. 



The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures, 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed ; 
Let simple maid the lesson. read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo. 

The bird that charm' d his summer day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 
How aft her fate's the same, jo. 



keenest, 
darkest 

nought 



fate, own 



oft 



BURNS's SONGS. 



463 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK. 

Air, — Where'll bonnie Ann lie? or, Locherroch side. 

Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay, 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art ; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, would 

Wha kills me wi' disdaining. who 

Say, was thy little mate unkind, 
And heard thee as the careless wind ? 
Oh ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd, nought 

Sic notes o' woe could wauken. such, waken 

Thou tells o' never-ending care : 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair ; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae niair, no more 

Or my poor heart is broken ! 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Air, — Aye waukin, 0. 
[Modelled on an old lyric] 

Can I cease to care, 
Can I cease to languish, 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of anguish ? 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror ; 
Slumber even I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 



464 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh ! in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine, 

But my Chloris spare me ! 



MY NANNIE'S AWA'. 

Air, — There'll never he peace till Jamie comes Tiame. 

[Mrs. Maclehose, the Clarinda of his letters, was the heroine of this song.] 

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 

An 7 listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, 

While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw ; every, wood 

But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa'. away 

The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, snow-drop 

An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; wet 

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, so, blow 
They mind me o' Nannie — an' Nannie's awa'. 

Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, lark, from 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', thrush 
Give over for pity — my Nannie's awa'. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, 

An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay ; 

The dark, dreary winter, an' wild- driving snaw, 

Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa'. alone 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? 

Air, — Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 

[One day when Burns had partaken too freely of wine at the festive board, he 
so far forgot himself as to attempt to salute Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee Park. She 
■was highly offended, and withdrew her favour from him for some time. The 
following song was written with reference to these circumstances. The lady's 
reply is annexed.! 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 



BURNS 's SONGS. 465 

Well thou know'st my aching heart, 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy ? 
Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 

An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 

That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee dear — 

But not a love like mine, my Katy ! 



THE REPLY. 

Sung to the same air. 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

For, ah ! thou know'st na every pang not 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. would 

Tell me that thou yet art true, 

An' a' my wrongs shall be forgiven, 
An' when this heart proves fause to thee, false 

Yon sun shall cease its course in heaven. 

But to think I was betrayed, 

That falsehood e'er our loves should sunder ! 
To take the flow'ret to my breast, 

An' find the guilefu' serpent under. 

Could I hope thou'dst ne'er deceive, 

Celestial pleasures, might I choose 'em, 
I'd slight, nor seek in other spheres 

That heaven I'd find within my bosom. 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

Stay, my Willie — yet believe me, 

For, ah ! thou know'st na' every pang 

Wad wring my bosom shouldst thou leave me. 



4,66 BURNS'S SONGS. 

CRAIGIEBURN WOOD. 

Air, — Craigieburn wood, 

[" Composed on a passion -which a Mr. Gillespie, a particular friend of mine, 
had for a Miss Lorimer, afterwards Mrs. Whelpdale. The young lady was born 
at Craipiebum Wood" (near Moffat).— item* Mrs. Whelpdale, under the 
name of Chloris, was the subject of many songs by Burns. This beautiful 
woman sank into the lowest srate of female degradation, and died in misery at 
Mauchline.] 

Sweet fa's the eve ou Craigieburn, 

An' blytlie awakes the morrow ; 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. nought 

I see the flowers an' spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing ; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

An' care his bosom wringing ? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; not 

But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it Linger. longer 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, another 

When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, from 

Around my grave they'll wither.* 



BLYTHE HA'E I BEEN ON YON HILL. 

Air, — Liggeram Cosh, 

[Miss Lesley Baillie, the heroine of this song, though she passed like a vision 
before the eyes of Burns, seems to have dwelt long in his memory.] 

Blythe hae 1 been on yon hill, have 

As the lambs before me ; 
Careless ilka thought an' free, every 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae longer sport an' play, no 

Mirth or sang can please me : song 

Lesley is sae fair an' coy, so 

Care an' anguish seize me. 

* Craigieburn Wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about 
three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal 
waters. The woods of Craigieburn and of Dumcrief were at one time favourite 
haunts of our poet. It was there he met the " Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,*' 
and that he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics.— Currie. 



BURNS'S SONGS, 467 

I 

Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r, can nought, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! stare 

If she winna ease the thraws will not, 

In my bosom swelling, throes 

Underneath the grass green sod, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. mus t 



LOGAN BRAES. 
Air, — Logan Water, 

[The air of " Logan braes " is old, and there are several old songs to it. The 
couplet— 

" While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes," 

was adopted by Burns from a song composed by a Mr. John Mayne. ■ Have 
you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on read- 
ing of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate 
provinces, and lay nations waste out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from 
still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind I recollected the air of 
' Logan Water,' and it occurred to me that its querulous melody probably had 
its origin from the plaintive indignation of some swelling suffering heart, fired 
at the tyrannic strides of some public destroyer; and overwhelmed with private 
distress, the consequence of a country's ruin." — Burns to Thomson.'] 

Oh Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 

That day I was my Willie's bride ; 

An' vears sinsyne ha'e o'er us run, since then 

Like Logan to the simmer sun. 

But now thy flow'ry banks appear 

Like drumlie winter, dark and drear, 

While my dear lad maun face his faes, must, foes 

Far, far frae me an' Logan braes. from 

Again the merry month o' May 

Has made our hills an' valleys gay ; 

The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 

The bees hum round the breathing flowers : 

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye, 

An' evening's tears are tears of joy: 

My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 

While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 



have 
summer 



4:68 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush ; 
Her faithfu 1 mate -will share her toil, 
Or wi' his songs her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights an' joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Loo-an braes. 



among 



Oh, wae upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye make many a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days, 
An' Willie hame to Logan braes ! 



home 



if 



drop 



OH GIN MY LOVE WEEE YON EED ROSE. 

Air, — Huglde Graham. 

[The first two verses of this song are old: the rest are by Burns.] 

Oh gin my love were yon red rose 

That grows upon the castle wa' ; 
An' I mysel' a drap o' clew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 
Oh there, beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beauty a' the night ! 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light. 

Oh, were my love yon lilach fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, 
An' I, a bird to shelter there, 

Vvlien wearied on my little wing — 
How I wad mourn, when it was torn 

By autumn wild, an' winter rude ! 
But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When ycuthfu' May its bloom rensw'd. 



soft folds 
scared away 



would 



BURNS'S SSNGS. 469 

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON. 
Aie, — A/ton Water. 

[Composed in honour of, and presented to Mrs. Stewart of Stair, whose paternal 
property was situated on the banks of the Aft on, an Ayrshire tributary of the 
Nith, near New Cumnock.] 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills ; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high, 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ; 
There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. birch 

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear 
wave. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays \ 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



470 BURNS'S SONGS. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS, 
Air, — The lass of Inverness, 

[" As the poet passed slowly over the fatal moor of Culloden, the lament of 
the 'Lass of Inverness' rose, it is said, on his fancy." The first half verse is all 
that remains of the old words, the rest are by Burns.] 

The lovely lass o' Inverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; no 

For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e : salt, eye 

Drumossie moor — Drumossie day — 

A waefu' day it was to me ! woM 

For there I lost my father dear, 

My father dear, and brethren three. 

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay, bloody 

Their graves are growing green to see : 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, woe 

A bluidy man I trow thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair, sore 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY THEE. 

Air, — The auld man wad he married. 
[" These words are mine."— Burns in his Reliques. " Jeanie " is Mrs. Burns.] 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvor, beggar loons to me — bankrupt 

V • p t • > -u fellows 

I reign in Jeanie s bosom. 

Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me : 
Kings and nations — swith awa' i b aw° ne 

Reif randies, I disown ye! tuief beggars 



BURNS'S SONGS. 471 

SUCH A PARCEL OF EOGUES IK A NATION. 

Air, — A parcel of rogues in a nation. 

Ii 
[Justice to Scotland is a cry as old as the Union. He is no Scotsman who 
stands aloof, and tamely submits to the violation of national rights by metro- 
politan absorption, or otherwise.] 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story. eo 

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, I 

. And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
To mark where England's province stands — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

What force or guile could not subdue, 
Thro' many warlike ages, 

Is wrought now by a coward few, 
For hireling traitors' wages. 

The English steel we could disdain, 
Secure in valours station ; 

But English gold has been our bane- 
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

Oh would, or I had seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld gray head had lein in clay, lain 

Wi' Bruce an' loyal Wallace ! 
But pith an' power, till my last hour, 

I'll make this declaration ; 
We're bought and sold for English gold — 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

Air, — She's fair andfause. 

[The heroineship of this song, it has been sarcastically remarked, has not been 
claimed by any one.] 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart, false 

I lo'ed her meikle an' lang ; ^d, much * 

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. g° 



£72 BURNS'S SONGS. 

A coof cam' in wi 1 routh o' gear, ^Jilh**** 

And I ha'e tint my dearest dear ; have lost 

But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. go 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, whoever 

To this be never blind, 
Nae ferlie 'tis tlio 1 fickle she prove, no wdcder 

A woman has't by kind. 
Oh woman, lovely woman fair ! 

An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been ower meikle to gi'en thee mair — {t wou ' d » 

T , . & over much, 

I mean an angel mmd. given, more 



SONG OF DEATH. 



Air, — Oran an Aoig ; but now sung to the Irish air, My 
lodging is on the cold ground, 

["Looking over, with a musical friend, M'Donald's Collection of Highland Airs, 
I was struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled 'Oran an Aoi£,' or 'The 
Song of Death,' to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas."— Burns to 
Mrs. Dunlop, December 17, 1791J 



Scene.— A field of battle Time of the day, evening.— The wounded and dying 

of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:— 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, 

Now gay with the bright setting sun ; 
Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties — 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe ! 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ; 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant ! but know, 

No terrors hast thou to the brave ! 

Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our king and our country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

Oh! who would not die with the brave! 



burns's SONGS. 473 

FAIR ELIZA. 

A Gaelic air. 

[" The original title of this song was ' Fair Rabina : * the heroine was a young 
lady to whom one of the poet's friends was attached, and Burns wrote it in com- 
pliment to his passion. Johnson, the proprietor of the Museum, disliked the 
name, and desiring to have one more suitable for singing, the poet unwillingly 
changed it to Eliza."— Cunningham.1 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind blink before we part, one 

Bue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithful heart ? 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza ; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, ha'e I offended ? nave 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die ? who, would 

While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe ; every 

Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom, 

In the pride o' sunny noon ; 
Not the little sporting fairy, 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, eye 

Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gi'es to me. gives 



SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 

Air, — The eight men of Moidart. 

[The heroine of this song was the wife of a farmer near Ellisland.] 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, dwelt 

The spot they called it Linkum-doddie ; 

Willie was a wabster gude, weaver good 

Could stown a clew wi' ony body. stolen, any 



474 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



He had a wife was dour an' din, 

Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither ; 

Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She has an e'e — she has but ane, 

The cat has twa the very colour ; 
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller : 
A whiskin' beard about her mou', 

Her nose an' chin they threaten ither — 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

She's bough-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, 

Ae limpin' leg, a hand-breed shorter ; 
She's twisted right, she's twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter ; 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, 

An' wi' her loof her face a washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is na sic trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion ; 
Her walie nieves like midden- creels, 

Her face wad fyle the Logan Water ; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 

I wad na gi'e a button for her. 



stubborn, 

dun 
tinker, 

mother 
such 
would not 

give 
eye, one 
two 
besides 
deafen 

each other 



one, breadth 

every 

shoulder 



old cat, fire 

palm 

not so 
wipes, 

mouth, 

cushion 
huge rists 
would dirty 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Air, — If lie he a hutclier neat and trim ; or, The cardiri 1 oV. 

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 

Could I describe her shape an' mien ; 
The graces of her weel-faur'd face, 

An' the glancin' of her sparklin' een ! 
She's fresher than the morning dawn 

When rising Phoebus first is seen, 
When dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn ; 

.An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 



well favoured 
eyes 



two 



BURNS'S SONGS. 475 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 
An' shoots its head above each bush ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. two 

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 

With flow'rs so white an' leaves so green, 
When purest in the dewy morn ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 

When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 
That wantons round its bleating dam ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
Her hair is like the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 
When flow'r-reviving rains are past ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 

When shining sunbeams intervene, 
An' gild the distant mountain's brow ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
Her voice is like the evening thrush 

That sings in Cessnock banks unseen^ 
While his mate sits nestling in the bush ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 

That sunny walls from Boreas screen — 
They tempt the taste an' charm the sight ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
Her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 

With fleeces newly washen clean, 
That slowly mount the rising steep ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 

That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 
When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas ; 

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' een. 
But it's not her air, her form, her face, 

Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 
But the mind that shines in ev'ry grace, 

An' chiefly in her sparklin' een. 



476 



BUEXS'S SONGS. 



OH LOVE WILL VENTURE EST. 

Air, — The posie. 

Oh luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen ; lave > da ™ 
Oh luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been ; nce 
But I will down yon river rove, amoug the wood 
sae green — so 

An' a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. own 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
An' I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear ; 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms 
without a peer — 
An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. o^n 

111 pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie niou' : balmy, 
The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue — mouth 
An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, an' the lily it is fair, 
An' in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity, an' unaffected air — 
An' a' to be a posie to my ain kind May. 

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller gray, silver 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of day. 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna will not take 
tak' away — 
An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 



THE COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Air, — The country lassie. 

In simmer, when the hay was mawn, 

An' corn wav'd green in ilka field, 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

An' roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blvthe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says — u I'll be wed, come o't what will." 
Out spak' a dame in wrinkled eild — 

M 0' gude advisement comes nae ill. 



summer, 

mown 
every 
clover 
blow, every 

shelter 
hut 



good, no 






BURNS'S SONGS. 



477 



44 It's ye ha'e wooers mony ane, 

An', lassie, ye re but young, ye ken ; 
Then wait a wee, an' cannie wale 

A routine butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak' this frae me, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

" For Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flee ; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps an' kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e'e, 

An', weel I wat, he lo'es me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad na gi'e 

For Buskie-glen an' a' his gear." 

44 Oh thoughtless lassie, life's a faught *, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fou han't is fechtin' best, 

An' hungry care's an unco care ; 
But some will spend an' some will spare, 

An' wilfu' folk maun ha'e their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 

44 Oh, gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

An' gear will buy me sheep an' kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd an' siller canna buy ; 
We may be poor — Robie an' I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content an' luve brings peace an' joy — 

What mair ha'e queens upon a throne ? " 



have, many 
one 

a little, care- 
ful choose 

a well stored 
house 



take, from 
feeds, lover's 



do not, fly- 
loves so well, 
crops, cows 

eye 

well, know 
one, would 
not give 
wealth 

struggle 
quietest road, 

sore 
full handed, 

fighting 
awful 

must have 

then 

ale 



money, 

ridges 
cows 
happy 
gold, silver 

cannot 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Air, — Bonnie wee tiling, 
['* Composed on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies." 

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine. 



-Burns.] 
careful 



478 BURNS'S SONGS. 

I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look an' languish 
In that bonnie face o' thine ; 

An' my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, an' grace, an' love, an' beauty, 

In ae constellation shine ; 
To adore thee is my duty, 

Goddess o 7 this soul o' mine ! 
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, 

Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine ! 



would 
lose 



throbs 
not 



LOVELY DAYIES. 

Air, — Miss Muir. 

O HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 

The poet's occupation, 
The tunefu' powers, in happy hours, 

That whispers inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning, 
When past the shower, an' ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming, lovely Davies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 
That mak's us mair than princes ; 

A sceptr'd hand, a king's command, 
Is in her darting glances : 



above, sky 
makes 



BURNS'S SONGS. 479 

The man In arms 'gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is ; 
He hugs his chain, an' owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My muse to dream of such a theme, 

Her feeble powers surrender : 
The eagle's gaze alone surveys 

The sun's meridian splendour: 
I wad in vain essay the strain, would 

The deed too daring brave is ; 
I'll drap the lyre, an' mute admire drop 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 



THE DAY RETUEXS. 

Air, — The seventh of November. 

["I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest 
married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. 
At their fireside I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses 
of fashionable people in this country put together."— Burns. They resided at 
Friar's Carse, close to Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith.] 

The day returns, my bosom burns, 

The blissful day we twa did meet, tvro 

Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. so 

Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

An' crosses o'er the sultry line ; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns an' globes, 

Heav'n gave me more — it made thee mine ! 

While day an' night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give, 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, an' thee alone, I live. 
W T hen that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part, 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart ! 



480 BURNs's SONGS. 

AE FOND KISS. 

Air, — Eory DalVs port 

[Supposed to relate to his parting with Clarinda. " These exquisitely affect- 
ing stanzas contain the essence of a thousand love tales."— ~Scott.~\ 

A e fond kiss, and then we sever ; one 

Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! farewell 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans 111 wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; no 

Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 

Naething could resist my Nancy ; nothing 

But to see her was to love her ; 

Love but her, and love for ever. 

Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 

Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 

Never met — or never parted, 

We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ; well 

Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 

Thine be ilka joy and treasure, every 

Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 

Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever ! 

Deep in heart- wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee ! 



THE SMILING SPEING. 
Air, — Bonnie bell. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 
And surly winter grimly flies ; 

Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies. 



BURXS'S SONGS. 481 

Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean swell ; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning, 

And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging, 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

Ail?, — No churchman am i, for to rail or to write, 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, 
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill; 
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear ! 
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year. 
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, 
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse, 
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues ! 

How long I have liv'd — but how much liv'd in vain ! 

How little of life's scanty span may remain ! 

What aspects old Time, in his progress has worn ! 

What ties cruel fate in my bosom has torn ! 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! 

And downward how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd ! 

This life's not worth having with all it can give — 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 



482 



BURNS S SONGS. 



WHE>T JANUAK' WIND. 

Air, — The lass that made the led to me, 

[" 'The honnie lass that made the bed to me,' was composed on an amonr ol 
Charles II."— Burns. The following, Burns manufactured from the old version 
of the affair.] 



When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 

As to the north I took my way, 
The mirksonie night did me enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 
By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my care ; 
An' kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 



■blowing cold 

darksome, 
enfold 
not 



I bow'd fir 1 low unto this maid, 

An' thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

An' bade her mak' a bed to me. 
She made the bed baith large an' wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down ; 
She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

An' drank, " Young man, now sleep ye scran'." 



make 



She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 

An' frae my chamber went wi' speed ; 
But I call'd her quickly back again 

To lay some niair below my head. 
A cod she laid below my head, 

An' served me wi' due respect : 
An' to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

" Haud aff your hands, young man," she says, 

" An' dinna sae uncivil be ; 
If ye ha'e ony love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie." 
Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



from 

more 
pillow 



hold off 
do not so 
have 

wrong not 
gold 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



483 



Her bosom was the driven snaw, snow 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; two 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, stone 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre an' owre. again, over 

An' aye she wist na what to say ; knew not 
I laid her 'tween me and the wa' — 

The lassie thought na lang till day. n ot Jong 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 

I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
But aye she blush'd and aye she sigh'd, 

And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 
I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, then 

While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e ; eye 

I said, M My lassie dinna cry, do not 

For ye aye shall mak' the bed to me. 1 ' 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, mother's 

An' made them a' in sarks to me : shirts 

Elythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me ; 
111 ne'er forget till the day I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 

Am, — Aye waukin\ 0. 
[The first verse is by Burns ; the others were only revised by him.] 

summer 



Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flowers of every colour ; 

The water rins o'er the heugh, 
An' I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin', O, 

Waukin' still an' wearie ; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



runs, bank 



waking 



484 BUEKS'S SONGS, 

When I sleep I dream, 

When I wauk I'm eerie : timorous 

Sleep I can get nane 

For thinkin' on my dearie. 






Lanely night comes on, lonely 

A ? the lave are sleepin' ; rest 

I think on my bonnie lad, 

An bleer my een wi greetm . mg 



THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 

Air, — mount and go. 

[Part of this song is old, and part of it by Burns, though he never acknow- 
ledged it.l 

CHORUS. 

On mount and go, 

Mount and make you ready ; 

Oh mount and go, 

And be the captain's lady. 

When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle, 
Thou shalt sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 

"When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go, 

And in love enjoy it. 



OH AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 

Air, — My wife she dang me. 

IThe idea of this song seems to have been taken from the old song to which 
this air was originally wedded.] 

Oh aye my wife she dang me, pushed 

An' aft my wife did bang me, oft, beat 

If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, # ive , . .» 

n l r vi i m i good, get the 

buue taitn, shell soon o ergans ve. better of 



BUENS'S SONGS, 4o5 

On peace an' rest my mind was bent, 

An' fool I was, I married ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 

Some sair o' comfort still at last, share 

When a' my days are done, man ; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. above 

Oh aye my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gi'e a woman a' her will, 
Gude faith, she'll soon o'ergang ye. 



FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY CARE. 

Am, — Wldstle der the lave oH. 

[The old verses to this air were very licentious. Burns wrote these to super- 
Fede them, and succeeded. The air was composed by John Bruce, a fiddler of 
Dumfries, and a good one.] 



First when Maggy was my care, 
Heaven I thought was in her air ; 
Now we're married — spier nae in air — ask no more 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. rest 

Meg was meek, an' Meg was mild, 
Bonnie Meg was nature's child ; 
Wiser men than me's beguil'd — 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg an' me, 

How we love, an' how we 'gree, 

I care na by how few may see — not 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggots' meat, % Y ho 

Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — must 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 



±86 BURNS's SONGS. 

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON. 
Air, — Bliannerach dhon na cJiri. 

["These verses were composed on a charming girl, a Miss Charlotte Hamilton, 
who is now married to James M'Kitrick Adair,' Esq., physician. She is sister of 
my worthy Mend Gavin Hamilton, of Mauchline, and was bora on the banks of 
Ayr, but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Harvieston in Clack- 
mannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon."— Burns.] 

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, 

With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon 

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, 

In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ; 
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, 

With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn : 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 

The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, 

And England, triumphant, display her proud Rose; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, 

WTiere Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



BRAVING ANGRY "WINTER'S STORMS- 

Air, — Neil Goitfs lament for Abercairny. 

[" This song I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy 
Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes & Co.'s Bank, Edinburgh." 
— Burns.] 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes ; 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polish'd blazfe 



BURNS'S SONGS. 487 

Blest be the wild, sequester 'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour, 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey VI, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death, with grim control, 

May seize my fleeting breath ; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



MY PEGGY'S FACE. 

Air, — My Peggy 9 s face. 

fPeggy was Miss Chalmers, the subject of the preceding song.] 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace, so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
Who but owns their magic sway ! 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The gen'rous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms — 
These are all immortal charms. 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING. 
Air, — Macgregor of Paiarws lament, 

[" I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, alluding to her 
feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death (1786) 
of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudoun, who shot himself out of sheer 
heart-break at some mortifications he suffered owing to the deranged state of 
his finances." — Burns.'] 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 



488 BURNS'S SONGS. 

By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring — 
" Farewell hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow, 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 

" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering ; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
Gladly how would I resign thee, 
And to dark oblivion join thee !" 



HIGHLAND HAREY. 

Air, — The Highlander's lament 

["The chorus I picked up from on old woman in Dumblane; the rest of the 
song is mine."— Burns. "It is evident that the poet has understood the chorus 
in a Jacobite sense, and -written his own verses in that strain accordingly. Mr. 
Peter Buchan has, nevertheless, ascertained that the original song related to a 
love attachment between Harry Lumsdale, the second son of a Highland gentle- 
man, and Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the laird of Knockhespock in Aber- 
deenshire. .The lady was married to her cousin, Habiche Gordon, a son of the 
laird of Ehymie ; and some time after, her former lover having met her and 
shaken her hand, her husband drew his sword in anger, and lopped off several 
of Lumsdale's fingers— which Highland Harry took so much to heart, that he 
soon after died."— Chambers.'] 

My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strode he on the plain : 
But now he's banish' d far away, 
I'll never see him back again. 
Oh for him back again ! 

Oh for him back again ! 
I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's land would cive 

For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, rest go 

I wander dowie up the glen ; sad 

I set me down and greet my fill, w<? p 
And aye I wish him back again. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 489 

Oh were some villains hangit high, hanged 

And ilka body had their ain ! every, own 

Then I might see the joyful sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Air, — Druimion Dulli. 

I U I composed these verses out of compliment to a Mrs. MacLachlan, whose 
husband is an officer in the East Indies."— Burns.} 

Musing on the roaring ocean 

Which divides my love and me ; 
Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal, where'er he be. 

Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law, 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa'. away 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy- surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 

Gentle night, do thou befriend me ; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw ; 
Spirits kind again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa'. 



THE GALLANT WEAVER. 
Air, — The weavers' march. 

tThcse were the palmy days of weaving— a weaver would he no prize now-a- 
daysJ 

Where Cart rins rowin' to the sea, runS rolling 

By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, many 

There lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a. gallant weaver. 



490 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Oh, I had wooers aucht or nine, eight 

They gi'ed me rings and ribbons fine : gave 

An' I was fear'd my heart would tine, be lost 
An' I gi'ed it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, father, dower 



To gi'e the lad that has the land ; 
But to my heart I'll add my hand, 

And gi'e it to the weaver. 
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in op'ning flowers ; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 

I'll love my gallant weaver. 



bond 
give 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

Air, — Andro and Ms cutty gun. 

I" I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre, with Sir William 
Murray (father of Sir George Murray, late secretary for the colonies). The lady, 
who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well known toast, Miss 
Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was called, and very justly, the Flower of 
Strathmore"— Burns. Miss Murray became the wife of David Smith, of Meth- 
ven, a judge of the Court of Session (under the designation of Lord Methven). 

CHORUS. 

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 

Blythe was she butt and ben : 
Blythe by the banks of Ern, 

An' blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Auchtertyre grows the aik, oak 

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw ; birch wood 

But Phemie was a bonnier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 

Her smile was like a simmer morn : summer 

She tripped by the banks o' Ern, 

As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lea ; any 

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet s ° 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. eye 



burns's SONGS. 491 

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 

An' o'er the lowlands I ha'e been ; have 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. 

Air, — The shepherd's wife, 

[** This song I composed on Miss Jenny Cruickshanks, only child to my worthy 
friend Mr. William Cruickshanks, of the High School, Edinburgh."— Burns. 
She afterwards became the wife of Mr. Henderson, writer, Jedburgh.] 

A rose-bud by my early walk, 

Adown a corn-enclosed hawk, open space 

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, so 

All on a dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
An' drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood, 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeanie fair! 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tends thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young an' gay> 
Shall beauteous blaze upon the day, 
An' bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 



! 



492 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



THE BLUDE-KED ROSE AT YULE MAY JBLAW. 

Air, — To daunton me, 

[The poet seems to have had a Jacohite song, "To daunton me," in his 
thoughts when he composed this.] 



The blude-red rose at Yule may blaw, 

The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 

The frost may freeze the deepest sea ; 

But an auld man shall never daunton me. 
To daunton me, an' me so young, 
Wi- his fause heart an' flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see ; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

For a' his meal an' a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef an' his saut, 
For a' his gold an' white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye an' yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens an' knowes ; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab an' his auld beld pow, 
An' the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd e'e- 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 



blood, blow 
summer, 
snow 

old, subdue 
false 



malt 
salt, 
money- 



wealth, cows, 
ewes 
hills 



limps two- 
fold, can 

mouth, bald 
head 

eye 



BONNIE CASTLE-GOKDON. 
Air, — Morag. 

[Composed after the poet's visit to Gordon Castle, the seat of the Duke 01 
Gordon, in September, 1787, and sent to his Grace's librarian, Mr. James Hay.] 

Streams that glide in orient plains, 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 

Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix' d with foulest stains 

From tyranny's empurpled bands ; 



BURNS'S SONGS. 493 

These, their richly gleaming wave?, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves » 

The banks by Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay, 
Shading from the burning ray 

Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil ; 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave ; 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 

The storms by Castle- Gordon. 

Wildly here without control, 
Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul, 

She plants the forest, pours the flood : 
Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave, 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle- Gordon. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 
Air, — Morag. 

[The young Highland Rover is supposed to be the young Chevalier, Prince 
Charles Edward Stuart, — Currie.1 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, blow 

The snaws the mountains cover ; snows 

Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden, 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey^ 
- An' bonnie Castle- Gordon. I 



494 BURXS'S SONGS. 

The trees now naked groaning, 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, hanging 

The birdies dowie moaning, sad 

Shall a 1 be blythely singing, 

An' every flower be springing. 
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, livelong 

When by his mighty warden, 
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, 

An' bonnie Castle- Gordon. 



BLOOMING NELLY. 

Air, — On a bank of flowers. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood, 

Who for her favour oft had sued, 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath' d, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild — wanton, kiss'd her rival breast ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush 'd— 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace ; 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 

A faltering, ardent ldss he stole ; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush 'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



495 



As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings, 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 

Away affrighted springs ; 
But Willie folio w'd, as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood ; 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 

Forgiving all and good. 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD. 

Air, — The honnie lad thaCsfar awa\ 

[Composed, it is thought, in allusion to the treatment of Jean Armour by her 
father.] 



Oh how can I be blythe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is ower the hills and far awa' ? 

When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is ower the hills and far awa' ? 



go, fine 
love 
over, away 



It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift an' snaw ; 
But aye the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa'. 
But aye the tear comes in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa'. 



snow 
eye 



My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they ha'e disown'd me a', 
But I ha'e ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 
But I ha'e ane will tak' my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 



put, from 

have 

one 



A pair o' gloves he ga'e to me, 

An' silken snoods he ga'e me twa, 
An' I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 
An' I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 



gave 
two 



496 



BONNIE ANN. 

Air, — Ye gallants bright. 

["I composed thissong out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter 
of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air Strathallan's Lament, and 
two or three others in this work (Johnson's Scots Musical Museum)." —Burns. 
Miss Masterton afterwards became Mrs. Derbishire.J 

Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right, counsel 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ; 
Her comely face sae fV o' grace, so full 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, eyes 

Her skin is like the swan ; 
Sae jimply lac'd her genty waist, neatly, ele- 

That sweetly ye might span. gant 

Youth, grace, an' love attendant move, 

An' pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, an' conquering arms, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw, I rede you a', fine 

Beware o' bonnie Ann ! 



MY BONNIE MARY. 
Aik, — Go fetch to me a pint o* wine. 

["This air is Oswald's; the first half stanza of this song is old ; the rest mine." 
—Burns. Written out of compliment to the feelings of a young officer about to 
embark for a foreign shore, whose ship rode by the Berwick- Law, and who was 
accompanied to the pier of Leith by a young lady— the bonnie Mary of the 
song."] 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; cup 

That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie : 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; bio-.vs from 

The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. nmst 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



497 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glittering spears are ranked ready ; 
The shouts o' war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody ; 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar — 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



would, 
longer 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 
Air, — I do confess tlwu art sae fair. 

[" This song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Aytoun, private secretary to 
Mary and Anne, Queens of Scotland."— Burns.] 



I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been owre the lugs in love, 
Had I na found the slightest prayer 

That lips could speak thy heart could move. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweets, 
Thy favours are the silly wind 

That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy ; 
How sune it tines its scent and hue 

When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tho' thou may gaily bloom awhile ; 
Yet sune thou shalt be thrown aside 

Like ony common weed and vile. 



■would, over, 
ears 
not 



every 



soon, loses 

pulled 

such 



any 



HUNTING SONG. 

Air, — I rede you hevjare at the hunting. 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn, mown 
Our lads gaed a-hunting ae day at the dawn, went, ono 

Ower moors and ower mosses and mony a glen, over, many 
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen. 



498 BURNS's SONGS, 

I rede you beware at the hunting, young men ; counsel 
I rede you beware at the hunting, young men ; 
Tak' some on the wing and some as they 

spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. quietly 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather 

bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; 
Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, 
And oh ! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I rede you beware, &C. 

Auld Phoebus himsel', as he peep'd o'er the hill, old 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill ; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she 
lay. 

I rede you beware, &c. 

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o 1 their skill ; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
. I rede you beware, &c. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEABIE? 

Air, — The sutor^s docliter. 

[The heroine of this song was Miss Janet Miller, daughter of Mr. Miller of 
Dalswinton, a lady of uncommon beauty, who became the wife of John Thomas 
Erskine, younger of Marr, afterwards thirteenth Earl of Marr.] 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 

Wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul, 

That's the love I bear thee ! 

I swear an' vow that only thon 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear an' vow. 

Shall ever be my dearie. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



499 



Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it winna, canna be, 
Thou, for thine may choose me, 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 
Lassie, let me quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



lovest 
not, own 

will not, 
cannot 



THE WINTER OF LIFE. 
Air, — Gil Morice. 

But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day ; 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers, 

In double pride were gay ; 
But now our joys are fled 

On winter blasts awa' ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age ; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or beild, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh ! age has weary days, 

An' nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu 7 prime f 

Why comes thou not again ? 



away 



head, no, 

thaw 
snows 
age, without 

hush, 

shelter 



TO MARY. 

Air, — Could, aught of song. 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers move thee, 

The muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 
Oh Mary, how I love thee ! 



500 BURNS'S SONGS. 

They who but feign a wounded heart, 
May teach the lyre to languish ; 

But what avails the pride of art, 
When wastes the soul with anguish ? 

Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover ; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

Oh read th' imploring lover ! 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gay disguising ; 
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd, 

The voice of nature prizing. 



THE FAREWELL. 

Air, — It teas a! for our rightful! king. 

[With reference to this song, Mr. Cunningham says,—" It is probable that the 
poet rather beautified and amended some ancient strain which he had dis- 
covered, than wrote it •wholly from his own heart and fancy. - '] 

It was a 9 for our rightfu' king 

We left fair Scotland's strand ; 
It was a' for our rightfu' king 

We e'er saw Irish land, 
My dear ; 

We e'er saw Irish land. 

!Mow a' is done that men can do, 

An' a' is done in vain ; 
My love an' native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main, raus t 

My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 

He turned him right, an' round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
An' ga'e his bridle-reins a shake, gaY e 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear ; 

With adieu for evermore, 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

The sodger from the wars returns, 
The sailor frae the main ; 

But I ha'e parted frae my love, 
Never to meet again, 

My dear ; 
Never to meet a<?ain. 



501 



soldier 

from 

have 



When day is gane, an' night is come, 
An' a' folk bound to sleep ; 

I think on him that's far awa', 
The lee-lang night, an' weep, 

My dear ; 
The lee-lang night, an' weep. 



gone 



livelong 



OH WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME? 

Am, — Morag. 
[Found among the poet's papers. He was very fond of the air " Morag."] 

Oh wha is she that lo'es me, loves 

An' has my heart a-keeping? 
Oh sweet is she that lo'es me, 

As dews o' simmer weeping, summer 

In tears the rose-buds steeping ! 

Oh that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind, 

An' ne'er a ane to peer her. one 



If thou shalt meet a lassie, 
In grace an' beauty charming, 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming. 



If thou hadst heard her talking, 
An' thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 

But her by thee is slighted, 
An' thou art all delighted, 



such 



every 



502 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



If thou hast met this fair one ; 

When frae her thou hast parted, 
If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted, 
An' thou art broken-hearted ; 
Oh that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
Oh that's the queen o' womankind, 
An' ne'er a ane to peer her. 



from 



OH STEER HER UP- 
Air, — Oh steer Tier up, and "hand her gaun. 
[The first four lines of this song are part of an old one.] 

Oh steer her up an' haud her gaun — 

Her mother's at the mill, jo ; 
An' gin she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

An' ca' another gill, jo, 
An' gin she take the thing amiss, 

E'en let her flyte her fill, jo. 

Oh steer her up, an' be na blate, 

An' gin she take it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

An' time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute, 

But think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'IL fin' anither will, jo. another 



stir, hold, 
going 

if, will not 
threaten 



if 
scold 



bashful 



no longer 
one rebuke 



CALEDONIA. 

Air, — Tlie Caledonian Hunt's delight. 

There was once a day — but old Time then was 
young— 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung, 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) 



BURNS'S SONGS. 603 

From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, 
To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would : 

Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew : 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall 
rue !" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, 

Her darling amusement the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd ; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand : t,.^ 

» o tomans; 

Kepeated, successive, tor many long years, 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the 
land; 

Then* pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 
They'd conquer' d and ruin'd a world beside ; 

She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly — 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the (the Saxons) 
shore ; 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth (the Danes) 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore: 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 

No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; 
But brave Caledonia in vain they assailed, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 

The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife ; 
Provok'd beyond hearing, at last she arose, 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life : (the Picts) 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver 
flood: 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 



1 



i 



504 



LURNS S SONGS. 



Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse ; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them 
always. 



OH LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. 
Air, — Cordwainer's march 



Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, 

In mine, lass, in mine, lass ; 

And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 

Unless thou be my ain. 

There's mony a lass has broke my rest, 
That for a blink I ha'e lo'ed best ; 
But thou art queen within my breast, 
For ever to remain. 

Oh lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass, 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 



hand 



ofr, much 
woe 
foe 



have loved 



ANNA, THY CHARMS. 
Air, — Bonnie Mary. 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 
And waste my soul with care ; 

But, ah! how bootless to admire, 
When fated to despair ! 



BURNS'S SONGS 505 

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair, 

To hope may be forgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in si^ht of heav'n. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Air, — Wandering Willie. 
[Clarinda,tho dearest object of his adoration, inspired these verses 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! once 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour 5 
But the dire feeling, oh farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. 

Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone. 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 



OH, WEET THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST. 

Air, — Lass 0' Livingstone. 

[The heroine of this song was Mrs. Riddel of Woodlee-Park.] 

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast cold 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, 
My plaidie to the angry airt, quarter 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, blow 

Thy bield should be my bosom, shelter 

To share it a', to share it a'. 



506 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Or were I in the wildest waste, 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, so 

The desert were a paradise, 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there : 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, 
The brightest jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. would 



LOVELY POLLY STEWART 
Air, — Ye* re welcome, Charlie Stewart* 

Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's, Liows 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 

Will give to Polly Stewart. 

May he whose arms shall fauld thy charms fcld 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Polly Stewart ! 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart ! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 



THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 

Air, — Push about the jorum. 

[Written in April, 1795, at the time of the threatened French invasion, and 
first published in the Dumfries Journal'] 

Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware, Sir ; fellows 

There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

An' volunteers on shore, Sir. 



BURNS's SONGS. 



507 



The Nith shall run to Corsincon,* 

An' Criffelf sink in Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rallv! 
Fall de rail, &c. 

Oh, let us not, like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided ; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon, 

An' wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Among oursel's united ; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted. 
Fall de rail, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk an' state, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 
Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought, 

An' wha wad dare to spoil it, 
By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it. 
Fall de rail, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

An' the wretch, his true-born brother, 
Who would set the mob aboon the throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Will hang as high's the steeple ; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 



strange 
bludgeon 



must, wrongs 



mend 
tinker 
drive 
blood 
who wouM 



CASSILLIS' BANKS. 

Air, — I ha'e laid a lierrirf in sant. 

Kow banks an' braes are claith'd in green, 
An' scatter' d cowslips sweetly spring ; 

* It would then run backward and up hilL 

t A high green mountain on the Scottish side of the Sol way. 



clothed 



508 BURNS'S SONGS, 

By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love, every 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! eye 

The child wha boasts o' warld's walth World's 

Is aften land o' meikle care ; wealth 

But Mary she is a' my ain— °;^ n ' much 

Ah ! fortune canna gi'e me mair. cannot give 

Then let me range by Cassillis' banks, more 

"Wi* her, the lassie dear to me, 
An' catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



YESTREEN I HAD A PINT 0' "WINE. 

Air, — Banks of Banna. 

L "I think this is the best love song I ever composed."— Burns. The heroine 
was a servant at the Globe Inn in Dumfries.] 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, last night 

A place where body saw na' ; not 

Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. golden 

The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to mv hinny bliss nothing, 

Upon the lips of Anna. honey 

Ye monarchs, tak' the east an' west, take 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! from 

Gi e me within my straining grasp give 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An empress or sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms 

I give an' take with Anna ! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



509 



Awa', thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa', thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray, 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night ! 

Sun, moon, an' stars withdrawn a' ; 
An' bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



away 
each, go 



MY LADY'S GOWX, THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T. 

Air, — Gregg 1 s pipes, 

[An improvement on an old song. The air was composed by James Gregg, an 
Ayrshire musician.] 



My lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
An' gowden flowers sae rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps an' jirkinet, 
My lord thinks meikle mair upon't. 

My lord a hunting he is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane,. 

By Colin's cottage lies his game, 

If Colin's Jenny be at haute. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
An' kith an' kin o' Cassillis' bluid ; 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guda 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out ower yon muir, out ower yon moss, 
Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 

Sae sweetly move her gentle limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns : 
The diamond dew is her een sae blue, 
Where laughing love sae wanton swims. 

My lady's dink, my lady's drest, 
The flower an' fancy o' the west ; 
But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 
Oh- that's the lass to make him blest. 



stripes 

golden, so 
stays, bod- 
dice 
much more 

gone 
none 

home 



blood 

pound, dower 
good 
loved 



over 

where moor- 
cocks 
dwells old 



eyes 

neat 
lovea 



610 



BORNS'5 SONGS. 

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 

Air,-— -The mill, mill 0. 






t" Bums I have been informed, was one summer evening at the inn at Brown- 
hill with a couple of friends, when a poor wayworn soldier passed the window : 
of a sudden, it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures; 
after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction 
not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his 'garland and 
singing robes about him,' and the result was the admirable song which he sent 
you for ■ the mill, mill, 0.' "— Correspondent of Mr. George Thomson t ~\ 



When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

An' gentle peace returning, 
Wi' niony a sweet babe fatherless, 

An' mony a widow mourning.* 
I left the lines an' tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor but honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstaind wi' plunder ; 
An' for fair Scotia, hanie again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o 5 Coil, 

I thought upon my Nancy ; 
I thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen 

Where early life I sported ; 
I pass'd the mill, an' trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid 

Down by her mother's dwelling ! 
An' turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my een was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 

\)h ! happy happy may he be, 
That's dearest to thy bosom! 



blown 
many- 
long 
soldier 
true 
home 



meeting 
oft 
who, own 



eyes 



* Variation- 



1 And eyes again with pleasure beamed, 
That had been bleared with mourning." 



BTTRNS'S SONGS. 511 

My purse is light, I've far to gang, go 

An' fain wad be thy lodger ; 
I've serv'd my king an' country lang — - long 

Take pity on a sodger !" 

Sae wistfully she gazed on me, so 

An' lovelier was than ever ; 
Quo' she, " A sodger ance I lo'ed, loved 

Forget him shall I never : 
Our humble cot an' hamely fare 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
That gallant badge, the dear cockaole, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't." 

She gaz'd — she redden'd like a rose — 

Syne pale like ony lily ; then, any 

She sank within my arms, an' cried, 

" Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" own 

41 By him who made yon sun and sky, 

By whom true love's regarded, 
I am the man ; an' thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 

" The wars are o'er, an' I'm come hame 

An' find thee still true-hearted ! 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, wealth 

An' mair we'se ne'er be parted." mor e 

Quo' she, " My grandsire left me gowd, g i<i 

A mailen plenish'd fairly ; f arm 

An' come, my faithfu' sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly." 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 

The farmer ploughs the manor ; 
But glory is the sodger's prize, 

The sodger's wealth is honour. 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger ; 
Kemember he's his country's stay 

In day an' hour of danger. 



512 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 

Air, — bonnie lass, will ye lie in a barrack. 

FIRST VERSION. 

[Founded on an old song, which Bums altered and trimmed up for Johnson'g 
Museum. The second version he modified for Thomson's Melodies.] 

Oh ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has -gotten, 

An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 

A braw new naig wi' the tail o' a rattan, fine, nag. rat 

An' that's what Meg o' the Mill has gotten. 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly, loves, 

An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly ? 

A dram o' guid strxmt in a mornin' early, good spirits 

An' that's what Meg o' the Mill lo'es dearly. 

O ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was married, 

An' ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was married ? 

The priest he was oxter'd,* the clerk he was carried, 

And that's how Meg o' the Mill was married. 

O ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was bedded, 

An' ken ye how Meg o' the Mill was bedded? 

The groom gat sae fou, he fell twa-fauld beside it, so drunk, 

An' that's how Meg o' the Mill was bedded.- tw °- fold 



SECOND VERSION. 

Sung to the same air. 

Oh ken ye wha Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She's gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley miller. 

The miller was strapping the miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The laird was a widdiefu' bleerit knurl ; — 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 



whom 

fool, lot, 
money 



pitiful, dwarf 
good, taken 



* Carried by being supported under the anna. 




**&05^ 



,l She gazed— she redden' d like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily; 
She sank within my arms, and cried 
Art thou my ain dear Willie?'" 

The Soldier's Return, p. 511. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



513 



The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ; offered 
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 

Oh wae on the siller it is sae prevailing ! woe, so 

And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen ! farm 

A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, dower no 

But gi'e me my love, and a fig for the warl' ! give, world 



BONNIE JEAN. 
Air, — Willie was a wanton wag; or, Bonnie Jean. 

[The heroine of the following is Miss (Jean) M'(Murdo), daughter to Mr. 
M'OIurdo), of D(rumlanrig). I have not painted her in the rank which she 
holds in life, hut in the dress and character of a cottager.— R.B.] 

There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen ; 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 
An' aye she wrought her mammie's wark, 

An' aye she sang sae merrilie : 
The blythest bird upon the bush 

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 



But hawks will rob the tender joys 

That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 
An' frost will blight the fairest flowers ; 

And love will break the soundest rest. 
Young Kobie was the brawest lad, 

The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 
An' he had owsen, sheep, and kye, 

An' wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, 

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; 
An' lang ere witless Jeanie wist, 

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 
As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en ; 
So trembling, pure, was tender love 

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. 



mother's 
work 



linnet 

handsomest 

oxen, cows 
nags 

went, fair 

long 
lost, stolen 



514 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



An' now she works her mammie's wark, 

An' aye she sighs wi' care and pain ; 
Yet wist na what her ail might be, 

Or what wad mak' her weel again. 
But did na Jeanie's heart loup light, 

And did na joy blink in her e'e: 
As Robie tauld a tale o' love 

Ae e'enin' on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west, 

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove ; 
His cheek to hers he fondly prest, 

An' whisper'd thus his tale o' love. 
11 Oh Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear ; 

Oh, canst thou think to fancy me ; 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot, 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me ? 



not 

would make, 
Well 

leap 

eye 
told 
one 



every 



love 



tend 



" At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge 

Or naething else to trouble thee ; 
But stray amang the heather bells, 

An' tent the waving corn wi' me." 
Now what could artless Jeanie do ? 

She had nae will to say him na ; 
At length she blush' d a sweet consent, 

An' love was aye between them twa, 



nothing 
among 



no 
tv.o 



OPEN THE DOOR TO ME, OH ! 

11 Oh ! open the door, some pity to show, 

Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! 
Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh ! open the door to me, oh ! 

11 Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh ! 

44 The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

An' time is setting with me, oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell 1 for mair 

m ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh ! " 



cold 



from 



BUfitfs's SONGS. 515 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh ! 
" My true love !" she cried, an' sank down by his side, 

Never to rise again, oh ! 



YOUNG JESSIE. 
Air, — * Bonnie Dundee* 

t Written in compliment to Miss Jessie Staig, daughter of Provost Staig of 
Dumfries— afterwards married to Major Miller, the second son of the laird of 
Dalswinton.] 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

An' fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river, 

Are lovers as faithful, an' maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain ; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, 

An' maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 

Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay dewy morning, 

An' sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o 1 lovely young Jessie 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring ; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : eyes 

An' still to her charms she alone is a stranger— 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a' ! 



PHILLIS THE FAIE. 

Air,— Robin Adair, 

[Written at the request of Stephen Clarke, the musician. Phillis M'Murdo, a 
pupil of Clarke, is the heroine. Clarke imagined himself to be in love with her. 
bliss P. M. afterwards became Mrs. Norman Lockhart of Carawath.] 

While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth I did fere j 



516 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high ; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 
Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Kosebuds bent the dewy spray ; 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 
Doves cooing were ; 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 
Phillis the fair. 



ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 

Air, — The mucking o' Geordie's byre. 
[Another written for Stephen Clarke in reference to Miss Phillis M'MurdoJ 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring ;. 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse an' to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa* wi' your belles an' your beauties* away 

They never wi' her can compare : 
Whaever has met wi' my Philiis, - whoever" 

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 



BtJRNS's SONGS. 617 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so "wild ; 
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis! 

For she is simplicity's child. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 

Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 
How fair an' how pure is the lily, 

But fairer an' purer her breast. 

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 

They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie : 
Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine, 

It's dew drop o' diamond her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes thro' the green-spreading grove, 

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, an' pleasure, an' love. 

But, beauty, how frail an' how fleeting — 

The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 
While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decav. 



HAD I A CAVE. 
Air, — Robin Adair. 

["You will remember an unfortunate part of our -worthy friend Cunning- 
ham's story, which happened about three years ago. That struck my fancy, 
find I endeavoured to do the idea justice as follows."— Bums to G. Thomson, 
August, 1793. Mr. Alexander Cunningham was a jeweller in Edinburgh, a man 
of polished and agreeable manners, and admitted into a class of society con- 
siderably above his own. The story of his unfaithful mistress, which is here 
alluded to, made a great noise at the time, and has been kept in remembrance 
by Burns's song. One evening, a very few years ago, a friend of mine, visiting 
a musical family who resided opposite St. John's Chapel, in Princes' Street, 
chanced to request one of the young ladies to sing " Bad I a cave." She was 
about to comply, when it was recollected that the heroine of the lay lived below, 
an aged widow, and might overhear it, for which reason the intention cf singing 
the song was laid aside.-— Chambers.] 

Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar ; 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose, 

Till grief my eyes should close f 
Ne'er to Wake more ! * - 



518 BUKXS'S SONGS. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare, 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air ! 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o er thy perjury; 

Then in thy bosom try 
What rjeace is there ! 



BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANC'D TO EOYE. 

Air, — Allan Water, 

["I walked out } r esterday evening with a volume of the Museum in ray hand; 
when turning up 'Allan water,' ' What numbers shall the muse repeat,' &c., as 
the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved 
under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure."— Burns to 
Thomson. ] , 

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi ; * 
The winds were whispering thro' the grove, 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen' d to a lovers sang, 

An 1 thought on youthfu' pleasures mony : m any 

An' aye the wild wood echoes rang — 

Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! f 

Oh, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bosrle make it eerie ; n 9; g ] wt, 

-vr *. ' i.u i dismal 

]Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place an 1 time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, u I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day, 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart, 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure ? 
Or thro 7 each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 

* " A mountain, treat of Stratnallnn, 3,009 feet high."— Bum** 

' (1 —B.urMi 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



519 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE TO MY BREAST. 

Air, — Cauld kail. 
[Jean Lorimer is said to be the heroine of this song.] 

Come, let me take thee to my breast, 

An' pledge we ne'er shall sunder ; 
An' I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth an' grandeur : world's 

An' do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her ? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

1 clasp my countless treasure ; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, no more 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : such 

An' by thy een sae bonnie blue, eyes so 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
An' on thy lips I seal my vow, 

An' break it shall I never ! 



BEHOLD THE HOUR, 

Air, — Or an- Gaoil. 

[Written in September, 1793, upon Clarinda, then meditating a voyage to th<a 
West Indies.] 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive : 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart! 
Sever'd from thee, can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, an' we must part. 
I'll often greet this surging swell, 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell ; 

There latest mark'd her vanished sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry, 

Across the rolling, dashing roar, 
I'll westward turn my wistful eye ; 



520 BURSS'S SONGS. 

Happy thou Indian grove, I'll say, 
Where now my Nancy's path may be ! 

While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 
Oh, tell me, does she muse on me ? 



FAIR JENNY. 
Air, — Saw ye my father? 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early song ? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, 
At evening the wild woods among ? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
An' marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure, 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 

Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near ? 
No, no ! the bees humming round the gay roses, 

Proclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known, 

All that has caused this wreck in my bosom, 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. 



DELUDED SWAIN, THE PLEASURE, 
Air, — The collier's dochter. 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure — 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 



I 

BURNS'S SONGS. 521 



The billows on the ocean, 
The breezes idly roaming, 

The clouds' uncertain motion, 
They are but types of woman. 

Oh ! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature ? 

If man thou would'st be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an' honest fellow ; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 



THINE AM I, MY FAITHFUL FAIR. 

Air, — Liggeram Cosh [The quaker's wife,'] 

[Clarinda, it is said, was the inspirer of this song.] 

Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart, 
There to throb an' languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core, 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away these rosy lips, 
Eich with balmy treasure : 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest 1 die with pleasure. 

What is life when wanting love ? 

Night without a morning : 
Love : s the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 



622 uTJRNS's SONGS. 

HERE IS THE GLEN". 

Air,— The banks of Cree. 

[" I got an air pretty enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, 
which she calls ' The banks of Cree.' Cree is a beautiful romantic stream : and 
as her ladyship is a particular friend of mine, I have written the following song 
to it/' — Burns to Thu?nson.2 

Here is the glen, and here the bower, 

All underneath the birchen shade ; 
The village bell has toll'd the hour, 

Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

'Tis but the balmy breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warblers dying fall. 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice 1 hear ! — 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 5 
His little faithful mate to cheer ; 

At once 'tis music and 'tis love. 

And art thou come ? — and art thou true ? 

Oh welcome, dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew, 

Along the flowery banks of Cree. 



OX THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY. 

Air, — O'er the hills, fyc. 

How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can I the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
lightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 523 



CHORUS. 



On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye for him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint, 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in the scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 

At the starless midnight hour, 

When winter rules with boundless power ; 

As the storms the forest tear, 

And thunders rend the howling air, 

Listening to the doubling roar, 

Surging on the rocky shore, 

All I can — I weep and pray, 

For his weal that's far away. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosperous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 



CA' THE EWES. 

Air, — Ca the ewes to the Jcnowes. 

"Much of this is old. Burns made several alterations and additions.] 

FIRST VERSION. 

As I gaed down the water side, went 
There I met my shepherd lad, 

He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, rolled 

_ And he ca'd me his dearie? called 



524 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



CHORUS. 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Will ye gang down the water side, 
And see the waves sae sweetly glide, 
Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? 
The moon it shines fu' clearly. 

I was bred up at nae sic school, 
My shepherd lad to play the fool, 
An' a' the day to sit in dool, 
And naebody to see me. 

Ye sail get gowns and ribbons sweet, 
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, 
And in my arms ye'se lie an' sleep, 
And ye sail be my dearie. 

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, 
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, 
And ye may rowe me in your plaid, 
And I sail be your dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay cauld death shall blin' my e'e, 
Ye sail be my dearie. 

Ca' the ewes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie ! 



drive, knolls 

where 
streamlet 
rolls 



go 

so 



no such 

sorrow 
nobody 

shall 

calf, shoes 
ye shall 



sky so high 
cold, eye 



SECOND VERSION. 
CHORUS. 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them whare the heather grows, 
Ca' them whare the burnie rows, 
My bonnie dearie. 



ewes, knolls 

streamlet 
rolls 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



525 



Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang ; 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side, 

Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 

O'er the waves that sweetly glide 

To the moon sae clearly. 

Yonder Clouden's silent towers, 
Where at moonshine, midnight hours, 
O'er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheery. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear ; 
Thou'rt to love and heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 

Fair and lovely as thou art, 
Thou hast stown my very heart ; 
I can die — but canna part, 
My bonnie dearie. 

While waters wimple to the sea ; 
While day blinks in the lift sae hie ; 
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, 
Ye shall be my dearie. 



thrush's, 

song 
among 
folding, go 



go 



ghost, spirit 
nought 



stolen 
cannot 



so high 
cold, eye 



SHE SAYS SHE LOE'S ME BEST OF A'. 

Air, — Onagli's waterfall. 

[Jean Lorimer, alias Mrs. Whelpdale, was the lady with the flaxen ringlets.] 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets, so 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue, 
Bewitchingly, o'er-arching 

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue, two, eyes 

Her smiling, sae wiling, 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe : would 

What pleasure, what treasure, 

Unto those rosy lips to grow ; 



526 



BUKXS'S SONGS. 



Such was my Chloris ' bonnie face, 
When first her bonnie face I saw, 

An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion ; 

Her pretty ankle is a spy 
Betraying fair proportion, 

Wad make a saint forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature — auld nature 

Declared that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
An' aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Let others love the city, 

And gaudy show at sunny noon ; 
Gi'e me the lonely valley, 

The dewy eve, and rising moon 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang ; 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang : 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, 
An' hear my vows o' truth and love, 

An' say thou lo'es me best of a\ 



loves 



would 



each, old 
no more 



give 

among 
song 
wood 
lovest 



SAW YE MY PHELY? 

Air, — When she cam'' ben she bobbit. 

[The swain here seems to he Stephen Clarke, and the fair inconstant Phillis 
M'Murdo, his pupil] 

Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
Oh, saw ye my dear, my Phely ? 
She's down i' the grove, she s wi' a new love, 



She winna come hame to her Willie. 



will not 



BURN8*S SONGS. 527 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 
An' for ever disowns thee, her Willy. 

Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thoirs fair, false 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy W T illy. 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
Air,— Duncan Gray, 

["These English songs gravel me to death. I have not that command of the 
language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at ' Duncan Gray ' to 
dress it in English, but all'l can do is deplorably stupid. For instance, "^Jiurns 
to T/tomson.] 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Of inconstancy in love ; 
Let not woman e'er complain 

Fickle man is apt to rove : 

Look abroad through Nature's range, 
Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange, 
Man should then a monster prove ? 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies ; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow : 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Round and round the seasons go. 

Why then ask of silly man 
To oppose great Nature's plan ? 
We'll be constant while we can — - 
You can be no more, you know. 



528 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



SLEEP'ST THOU, OR WAK'ST THOU? 
Air, — Ddil tak 1 the icars. 

[Composed one morning, October, 1794, in returning from a late-sitting dinner 
party in the country, where he had met Jean Lorimer, alias Mrs. Whelpdale.] 

Sleep'st tliou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 
Numbering ilka bud, which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 

Now thro' the leafy woods, 

And by the reeking floods, 
Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray : 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower, 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 



every 



linnet 



lark 



Phoebus gilding the brow o' mornings 

Banishes ilka darksome shade, 
Nature gladd'ning and adorning ; 

Such to me my lovely maid. 

When absent from my fair, 

The murky shades o' care 
With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish' d sight, 

When thro' my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart, 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 



<?ach 



MY CHLORIS, MARK HOW GREEN THE 
GROVES. 

Air, — My lodging is on the cold ground. 

["On my visit, the other day, to my fair Chlnris (Jean Lorimer), stte sug- 
gested an idea, which I, on my return from the visit, wrought into the following 
song."— Burns to Thomson.] 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers, 

And wave thy flaxen hair. 



wood 



BURNS'S SONGS. 529 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay, lark 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween. 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha : 
The shepherd stops his simple reed, 

Blythe in the birken shaw. h \l^ n 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 

The shepherd in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true ? 
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 

That spotless breast o' thine : 
The courtier's gems may witness love — 

But 'tis na love like mine. 



IT WAS THE CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 
Air, — Dainty Davie. 

I An old song cut down and altered to suit the tune of " Dainty Davie " in Mr. 
Thomson's publication.] 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day, 

The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
From peaceful slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flow'ry mead she goes, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 

Tripping o'er the pearly lawn,. 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 



530 BUBKS'S SOKGS. 

The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody, 

They hail the charming Chloe ; 
Till, painting gay the eastern skies 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes 

Of youthful, charming Chloe. 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM THAT WINDING 
FLOWS. 

Am, — Nanctfs to the greenwood gone. 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
Oh mem'ry! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn' d to drag a hopeless chain, 

And yet in secret languish, 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my griefs would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hapless lover. 
I know thou doom'st me to despair, 

Nor wilt, nor canst relieve me ; 
But, oh ! Eliza, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard, 

Nor wist while it enslav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

Till fears no more had sav'd me. 
Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing, 
*Mid circling horrors sinks at last 

In overwhelming ruin. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 531 

PHILLY AND WILLY, 
Air, — The sow's tail 

HE. 

Oh Philly, happy be that day 
When roving through the gathered hay, 
My youthfu heart was stown away, ttolen 

An' by thy charms, my Philly. 

SHE. 

Oh Willy, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love, 
Whilst thou didst pledge the powers above 
To be my ain dear Willy. own 

HE. 

As songsters of the early year 

Are ilka day mair sweet to hear, every, more 

So ilka day to me mair dear 
An' charming is my Philly. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes an' fairer blows, 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my A V illy. 

HE. 

The milder sun an' bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye bo 

As is a sight o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, guch 

As meeting o' my Willy, 



532 BURNS'S SONGS. 



HE. 



The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compared wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 



SHE. 



The woodbine in the dewy weet, 
When evening shades in silence meet 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet nought 

As is a kiss o' Willy., 



HE. 



Let fortune's wheel at random rin, run 

An' fools may tyne, an' knaves may win ; i 0S e 

My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, ne 
An' that's my ain dear Philly. 



SHE. 



What's a' the joys that gowd can gi'e? gold, give 

I care nae wealth a single flie ; not, fly 

The lad I love's the lad for me, 
An' that's my ain dear Willy. 



NOW SPRING HAS CLAD THE GROVE IN 
GREEN. 

[Written in 1795, with reference to the disappointment his friend Alexander 
Cunningham experienced in an " affair of the heart"] 

Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

An' strew'd the lea wi' flowers : 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join every 

Their sorrows to forego, 
Oh why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe I 



BURNS 'S SOXGS. 538 

The trout within yon wimplin' burn 

Glides swift — a silver dart ; 
An' safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art. 
My life was ance that careless stream, onco 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, n0 

Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

An' blighted a' my bloom, 
An' now beneath the with'ring blast 

My youth an' joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, i a rk 

An' climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye. 
As little reck'd I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

Oh, had my fate been Greenland snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man an' nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae mair," whose, no 

What tongue his woes can tell ! more 

Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



OH BONNIE WAS YON EOSY BRIER. 

Air, — The wee, wee man. 

[Chloris, alias Jean Lorimer, alias Mrs. Whelpdale, again.] 

Oh bonnie was yon rosy brier, 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; so, from 



534 BURNS'S SOXGS, 

An* bonnie she, an' ah ! how dear ! 
It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure amang the leaves sae green ; among 
But purer was the lover's vow 

They witnessed in their shade yestreen. last Right 

All in its rude an' prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet an' fair ; 
But love is far a sweeter flower 

Amid life's thorny path o ? care. 

The pathless wild an' wimpling burn, 

Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
An' I the world nor wish nor scorn, 

Its joys an' griefs alike resign. 



FORLORN, MY LOVE, NO COMFORT NEAR. 

Air, — let me in this ae night 

Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I must repine, love. 

CHORUS. 

Oh wert thou, love, but near me ; 
But near, near, near me : 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 

Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 

Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part, 

To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 

Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, Iqyq, 



BTJRNS'S SONGS. 535 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 



CHLORIS. 

Air, — The Caledonian Hanfs delight, 

Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy? 
Why, why undeceive him, 

And give all his hopes the lie ? 

Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers, 
Chloris, Chloris all the theme, 

Why, why wouldst thou cruel, 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



JESSY. 
Am, — Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear. 

tThe heroine of this song was Miss Jessy Lewars, who attended him so 
assiduously in his last illness. She afterwards became the wife of Mr. James 
Thomson, writer, Dumfries.] 

CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! one, lore 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, 
An' soft as their parting tear — Jessy ! 

Altho' thou maun never be mine, must 

Altho' even hope is denied : 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy ! 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day, 

As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am lock'd in thy arms — Jessy ! 



536 BURNS'S SONGS. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love rolling e'e ; eye 

But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree — Jessy ! 



FAIREST MAID ON DEVON BANKS. 

Air — Rothiemur chests rant. 

[The last song -written by Burns.] 
CHORUS. 

Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 

And smile as thou were wont to do ? 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Could'st thou to malice lend an ear ? 
Oh, did not love exclaim "Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so ! " 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles, oh let me share ! 
And, by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall know. 



THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 
Air, — Bonnie Dundee. 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles, 

The pride of the place an' its neighbourhood a', 
Their carriage an' dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Maryland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, an' Miss Betty is braw, i 
There's beauty an' fortune to get wi' Miss Morton ; 

But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 537 

HER FLOWING LOCKS. 

Air, — Unknown. 

[Composed after a momentary glimpse of a beautiful young female, who 
rode up to an inn at Ayr, as the poet had his foot in the stirrup to leave it.l 

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 

Adown her neck an' bosom hing ; hang 

How sweet unto that breast to cling, 

An' round that neck entwine her ! 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, wet 

Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou' ! 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, more 

A crimson still diviner. 



THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 
Air, — Shawriboy. 

[The manuscript of this song has the following note attached to it :— " This 
song, wrote by Mr. Burns, was sung by him in the Kilmarnock Kilwinning 
Lodge, in 1786, and given by him to Mr. Parker, who was Master of the Lodge."] 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation : 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to say, but only to pray, 

As praying's the ton of your fashion ; 
A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border ; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order ; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter ; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

^nd brotherly love be the centre. 



538 burxs's SONGS. 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 

Air, — Maggie Lauder. 

I married with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one and twenty years, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she steer' d, 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak and do not natter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 

Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her ; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The de'il would ne'er abide her ; 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder ; 
For why ? — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder ! 



THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

Air, — Neil Gow's lament. 

[** The air is claimed by Neil Gow, who calls it a Lament for his brother. The 
first half stanza oi the song is old, the rest is mine,"— Burns.] 

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity 

That he frae our lasses should wander aw a' ; from, away 

For he's t>onnie and braw, weel favoured and a', well 
And his hair has a natural buckle an' a'. 



BtmNs's SOXGS. 



539 



His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue ; so 

His fecket is white as the new driven snaw ; waistcoat, 

His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, blue, shoes 
And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. ?}° e 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin' ; 

Weel featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted, and well dowered 
braw ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her, silver, makes. 

The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 

There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad a-haen farm, would 
v« ° have had 

him ; 

And Susie, whose daddie was laird o' the ha' ; 

There's lang-tocher'dXancy maist fetters his fancy — almost 

But the laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a', loves 



AWA', WHIGS, AWA>. 

Air, — Avm\ ivhigs, aiva\ 

[A Jacobite song trimmed up for the Museum.] 

CHORUS. 

Awa', Whigs, awa', 

Awa', Whigs, awa' ! 
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons, 

Ye'll do na good at a'. 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 
And bonnie bloom' d our roses ; 

But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither' d a' our posies. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 
De'il blin' them wi' the stoure o't ; 

And write their names in his black beuk, 
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't. 

Our sad decay in Church and State 

Surpasses my descriving ; 
The Whigs cam' o'er us like a curse^ 

And we ha'e done wi' thriving 



away 

fellows 
no 

thistles 



devil, dust 
book 
who gave 



describing 



640 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap, long, taken 

But we may see him wauken ; awaken 

Guid help the day when royal heads good 

Are hunted like a maukin. hare 



not 



EPPIE ADAIR. 
Air, — My Eppie. 

And oh ! my Eppie, 

My jewel, my Eppie ! 

Wha wadna be happy who woul(3 

Wi' Eppie Adair ! 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Dishonour defile me, 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair ? 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 

t"This song is said to be a homely version of a Highland lament for the ruin 
which followed the rebellion of the 'forty-five.' Burns heard it sung in one ol 
his northern excursions, and begged a translation."— Cunningham.'] 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was na sae in the Highland hills, not so 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 

Kae woman in the country wide no 

Sae happy was as me. w 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



541 



For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on yon hills so high, 

An' giving milk to me. 

And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes, 

An' casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest of a' the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
For Donald was the brawest lad, 

An' Donald he was mine. 



knolls 
wool 



sore 
finest 



Till Charlie Stewart cam' at last, 

Sae far to set us free ; 
My Donald's arms was wanted then, 

For Scotland an' for me. 

Their waefu' fate what need I tell ? 

Right to the wrang did yield : 
My Donald an' his country fell 

Upon Cullo den's field. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 



woeful 
wrong 



WHARE HA'E YE BEEN? 

Am, — Killiecra n He, 

Whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Whare ha'e ye been sae brankie, O ? 
Oh, whare ha'e ye been sae braw, lad ? 

Cam' ye by Killiecrankie, ? 
An ye had been whare I ha'e been, 

Ye wad na been sae cantie, ; 
An ye had seen what I ha'e seen, 

On ths hraes.of Killiecrankie, 0* 



where have 
so 
gaudy 

came 

if, have 
would not 
merry 



I 

542 £URNS ? S SONGS, 

I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At name I fought my auntie, O ; home 

But I met the devil and Dundee, 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, ; 
The bauld Pit cur fell in a furr, bold, furrow 

An' Clavers got a clankie, ; blow 

Or I had fed an Athole gled, kite 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O. 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 

Air, — Carron side, 

CI added the first four lines by vr&y of giving a turn to the theme of the poem 
—such as it is.— Burns. As none of the others can be found in any collection, 
it has been suggested that Burns here made use of his own dictum with regard 
to song-mending. "A poet," says he, "should mend a song as a Highlander 
mends his pistol— he gave it a new" stock, a new lock, and a new barrel."] 

Frae the friends an' land I love from 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight ; more 

Never mair maun hope to find must 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 
When remembrance wracks the mind, • 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 

Brightest climes shall mirk appear, dark 

Desert ilka blooming shore, every 

Till the fates na mair severe, no 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till revenge wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; home 

And ilka loyal bonnie lad each 

Cross the seas an' win his ain. own 



iOkZ7« 



THERE WAS A LASS, 

Air,— Duncan Davison, 

These was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
An' she held owre the moors to spin $ 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



543 



There was a lad that follow'd her, 
They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 

The moor was driegh, an' Meg was skiegh, 
Her favour Duncan could na win ; 

For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 
An' aye she shook the temper-pin.'* 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks, 

An' aye she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith 

That Meg should be a bride the morn, 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith, 

An' flang them a' out owre the burn. 



tedious, ti- 
morous 
not 
distaff, -would 



went 



holy oath 

furniture 
flung 



We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 

An' we will live like king an' queen, 
Sae blythe an' merry we will be 

When ye sit by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink an' no be drunk ; 

A man may fight an' no be slain ; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

An' aye be welcome back again. 



build 



STAY, MY CHAEMER. 

Air, — An gille dubh ciar-dhuhh. 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 

Cruel, cruel to deceive me ? 

Well you know how much you grieve me ; 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

Cruel charmer, can you go ? 

By my love so ill requited. 

By the faith you fondly plighted, 

By the pangs of lovers slighted, 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do riot leave me so ! 



* A long screw for tightening the hand on the wheeL 



bU 



BURNS'S SOKGS. 



THENIEL MENZIES' BONNIE MARY. 
Air, — The ruffian's rant 



In coming by the brig o' Dye, 
At Darlet we a blink did tarry ; 

As day was dawin' in the sky, 

We drank a health to bonnie Mary. 

Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary, 
Theniel Menzies' bonnie Mary ; 

Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonnie Mary 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white, 
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry ; 

An' aye they dimpl't wi' a smile, 
The rosy cheeks o' bonnie Mary. 

We lap an' danced the lee lang day, 
Till piper lads were wae an' weary ; 

But Charlie gat the spring to pay, 
For kissin' Theniel's bonnie Marv. 



bridge 
short time 
dawning 



lost 



eyes, so 
cheek 



leapt, live- 
long 
sorry 
got, music 



LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN. 
Air, — Hey tuttie, taitie. 

[The first two verses of this song are by Burns. The last stanza is taken ^tom 
a political song.3 



Landlady, count the lawin, 
The day is near the dawin' ; 
Ye're a' blind drunk, boys, 
An' I'm but jolly fou. 
Hey tuttie, taitie, 
How tuttie, taitie — 
Wha's fou now ? 



reckoning 
dawning 

full 



who is 



Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
I wad sit an' sing to you, 
If ye were aye fou. 



if, fall 
would 



BURNS's SOXGS. 



545 



Weel may ye a' be ! 
Ill may we never see ! 
God bless the king, boys, 
An' the companie ! 



well 



GANE IS THE DAY. 

Air, — Guidivife, count the lawin. 

IThe chorus of this song is old.— Burns.] 

Gane is the day, an' mirk's the night, gone, dark 

But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light, 

For ale an' brandy's stars an' moon, 

An' bluid-red wine's the rising sun. blood 

Then gudewife, count the lawin, g° od > reckon- 
The lawin, the lawin ; 1Eg 

Then gudewife, count the lawin, 

An' bring a coggie mair. bowl more 

There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 

An' simple folk maun fight an' fen ; must, live- 

But here we're a' in ae accord, one 

For ilka man that's drunk 's a lord. e\ery 

My coggie is a haly pool, holy 

That heals the wounds o' care an' dool ; sorrow 

An' pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An ye drink but deep ye'll find him out. 



THE TITHER MORN. 
To a Highland air. 

The tither morn, when I forlorn 

Aneath an aik sat moaning, 
I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 

Beside me gin the gloaming. 
But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig, 

An' dawtingly did cheer me, 
When I, what reck, did least expec' 

To see my lad so near me. 



other 
oak 

not, lover 

by the even- 
ing 

so neat, leapt 
ridge 

endearingly 



546 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



His bonnet he, a thought ajee, awry 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me ; spruce 

An' I, I wat, wi' fainness grat, wot, wept. 

While in his grips he press'd me. gripe 

De'il tak' the war ! I late an' air, devil take 

Ha'e wislrd since Jock departed ; have 
But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, 

As short syne broken hearted. gince 

Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, oft 

When a' were blythe an' merry, 

I car'd na by, sae sad was I, not although 

In absence o' my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 

At kirk an' fair, I'se aye be there, I'll 

An' be as canty's ony. happy any 



THE WEARY PUND 0> TOW. 

Air, — The weary pund o' tow. 
[The idea of this song is old, and the chorus. 3 

The weary pund, the weary pund, pound 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint stone, flax 

As gude as e'er did grow ; good 

An' a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. one 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle lowe, fire flame 

An' aye she took the tither souk, other suck 

To drouk the stowrie tow. drench.dusty 

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! go, piece 

She took the rock, an' wi' a knock . distaff 

She brak' it o'er my pow. troke, head 



BTJRNS'S SONGS. 547 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; went, knoll 

An' or I wad anither jad, ere * ^; ed 

TM1 11 x another 

I'll wallop in a tow. hang, rope 



IT IS NA, JEAIST, THY BONNIE FACE. 
Air, — The maicPs complaint. 

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face not 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire. well 

Something, in ilka part o' thee, every 

To praise, to love, I find ; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I ha'e, no more, 

Nor stronger in my breast, have 

Than if I canna mak' thee sae, cannot, so 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



NITHSD ALE'S WELCOME HAME. 

[Written when Lady Winifred Maxwell, the descendant of the forfeited Earl 
of Nithsdale, returned to Scotland, and rebuilt Terreagles House, in the 
Stewartry of Kirkcudbright.! 

The noble Maxwells and their powers 

Are coming o'er the border, 
An' they'll gae bigg Terreagles towers, go build 

An* set them a' in order. 
An' they declare Terreagles fair, 

For their abode they chuse it ; 
There's no a heart in a' the land ? 

Put's lights at th§ WW o% 



548 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 

An' angry tempests gather, 
The happy hour may soon be near 

That brings us pleasant weather : 
The weary night o' care an' grief 

May ha'e a joyful morrow ; have 

So dawning day has brought relief — 

Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! farewell 



MY COLLIER LADDIE. 

Air, — The collier laddie. 

[An old song slightly altered by Burns.l 

Where live ye, my bonnie lass ? 

An' tell me what they ca' ye ; 
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the collier laddie, 
My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the collier laddie. 

See you not yon hills and dales, 

The sun shines on sae brawlie ! so finely 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 

Gin ye'll leave your collier laddie. if 

They a' are mine, &c. 

Ye shall gang in gay attire, go 

Weel buskit up sae gaudy : dressed 

An' ane to wait on every hand, one 

Gin yell leave your collier laddie. 
An' ane to wait, &c. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on, 

And the earth conceals sae lowly ; 
I wad turn my back on you and it a\ would 

An' embrace my collier laddie. 

I wad turn my back, &c, 

I can win my five pennies in a day. 
An' spent at night fu* brawlie ; 



BURNS's SONGS. 

An' mak' my bed in the collier's neuk, 
An' lie down wi' my collier laddie. 
An' mak' my bed, &c. 

Luve for luve is the bargain for me, 

Tho' the wee cot-house should haud me ; 

An' the world before me to win my bread, 
An' fair fa' my collier laddie. 

An' the world before, &c. 



549 



nook 



love 
hold 



befall 



AS I WAS A-WANDERING. 
Air, — Rinn meudial mo mliealladli. 

As I was a-wand'ring ae midsimmer e'enin 5 , one 

The pipers an' youngsters were making their 
game; 

Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, among, false 

Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure gae wi' well, go 
him; 

I may be distressed, but I winna complain ; will not 
I flatter my fancy I may get anithcr, another 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. one 

I could na get sleeping till dawin' for greeting not,dawning, 

The tears trickled clown like the hail am the rain : wee P in s 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken, would have 
For oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller, silver 

I clinna envy him the gains he can win ; do not 

I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow 

Than ever ha'e acted sae faithless to him. have, s ° 



YE JACOBITES BY KAME. 

Air,— Fe Jacobites hy name. 

Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear $ 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear \ 



550 BUiiNS 1 S SOKGS. 

Te Jacobites by name, 

Your fauts I will proclaim, fa-alts 

Your doctrines I maun blame — must 

You shall hear. 

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by wrong 
the law? 
What is right and what is wrang, by the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang ? 

A short sword and a lang, long 

A weak arm, and a Strang strong 

For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife fam'd afar, fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar ? 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 

Wi' bluidie war. blood/ 

Then let your schemes alone in the state, in the $faf e', 
Then let your schemes alone in the state ; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



LADY MARY ANM. 

Air,-— Cr a igtown s growing. 

Oh, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa T £ 
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba' ; 
The youngest he was the flower amang them a 9 — amcrig 
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 

Oh father ! oh father ! an* ye think it fit, ff 

We'll send him a year to the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken he's to marry yet. 

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue ; 
And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew I ! 
Jfpr the litv ia the bud will be bennier yet. 



BTJRNS'S SONGS. 551 

Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an aik ; oak 
Bonnie an' bloomin' an' straught was its make : straight 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake, 

And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. boast 

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, summer, 
An' the days are awa' that we ha'e seen ; away! have 

But far better days I trust will come again, 

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' 

yet. 



THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Air, — Kellyburn braes. 

[Composed from an old set of verses.] 

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, old man 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 

An' he had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, one, went, 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) lons 

He met wi' the devil ; says, " How do you fen?" lire 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

w I've got a bad wife, sir ; that's a' my complaint ; 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint : 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, ox, horse 
(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 

But gi'e me your wife, man, for her I must have, give 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime." 

u Oh welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said, 
(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 

M But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, worse 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime." 



552 burns's SONGS. 

The devil has got the aiild wife on his back ; old 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 

An' like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack ; 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an* rue is in prime, 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door ; home, own 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) inner door 

Syne bade her gae in, for a b — h an' a w — e, then, go 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 



Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, 
(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme.) 

Turn out on her guard in the clap o' a hand ; 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 






The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, old woman, 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) mTd' any 

Whae'er she gat hands on cam' near her nae mair ; got, no more 
An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; smoked 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
" Oh, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime," 

The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
He pitied the man that was tied to a wife ; 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

The devil he swore by the kirk an' the bell, 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
He was not in wedlock, thank Heav'n, but in hell ; 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
An' to her auld husband he's carried her back ; 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime. 

M I ha'e. been a devil the feck o' my life : have, most 

(Hey, an' the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
But ne'er was in hell till I met wi' a wife ; 

An' the thyme it is wither'd, an' rue is in prime." 



BTTRNS'S SONGS. 



553 



OUT OYER THE FORTH. 

Am, — Charlie Gordon's welcome hame. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands to me ? 

The south nor the east gi'e ease to my breast, give 

The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, » go 
That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be ; 

For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, love 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me. 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 

Air, — Bonnie lassie, tah'' a man. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 

O'er the mountains he is gane ; 
An' wi' him is a' my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw. 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain. 



When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'e, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves, 

. Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 



taken 
gone 

love, blow 
snow 

eye 
wakening 

Lome 



THE CARLES OF DYSART. 

Air, — Hey ca' iliro\ 

[WrittteH upon the basis of an old song.] 

- Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
An' the lads o' Buckhavcn, 



old fellows 



fiu 



BURNs's SOXGS. 



An' tlie ldmmers o' Larga, 
An' the lasses o' Leven. 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 

For we ha'e mickle ado ; 
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 
For we ha'e mickle ado> 



much 



We ha'e tales to tell, 

An' we hae sangs to sing ; 
We ha'e pennies to spend, 

An' we ha'e pints to bring. 



have 
songs 



We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behin', 
Let them do the like, 

An' spend the gear they win. 



wealth 



LADY ONLIE. 

Air,— The ruffian's rant 

[An old song trimmed up.] 

A 1 the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale, 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



go 

take 



good 



Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 
And cheerlie blinks the ingle gleed 
Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews guid ale at shore o' Bucky ; 
I wish her sale for her guid ale. 
The best on a' the shore o' Bucky. 



so snug, ker- 
chief 
■wot, hen 
fire-light 



burns's SONGS. 555 

YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 

Air, — The carlin o 1 the glen. 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 

Sae gallant an' sae gay a swain ; so 

Thro' a' our lasses he did rove, 

An' reigned resistless king of love : 

But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 

He strays amang the woods and briers, among 

Or in the glens an' rocky caves 

His sad complaining dowie raves. mournful 

I wha sae late did range and rove, who so 

An' chang'd with every moon my love, 

I little thought the time was near, 

Repentance I should buy sae dear ; 

The slighted maids my torment see, 

An' laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; endure 

While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 

Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! more 



THE CURE FOR ALL CARE. 

Air, — Prepare, my dear brethren, to the tavern leVsfiy. 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman or soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare — 
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow : 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low : 

But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, 

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 

Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse : 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse ; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air ! 
There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die ; 
For sweet consolation to church I did iiy ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair, 

T&at a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 



556 BURXS'S SONGS, 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck ; — 
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

4t Life's cares they are comforts ' '• — a maxim laid 

down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

black gown ; 
An', faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair ; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heav'n of care. 

ADDED IN A MASON'S LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper an' make it o'erflow, 
An' honours masonic prepare for to throw ; 
May every true brother of the compass an' square, 
Have a big- bellied bottle when harass' d with care! 



OH MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

[" The poet one day, it is said, was walking along the High Street of Dumfries, 
when he met a young woman from the country, who, with her shoes and stock- 
ings packed thriftily up, and her petticoat kilted, 

' Which did sweetly shaw, 
Her straight hare legs that whiter were than snaw,' 

was proceeding towards the Galloway side of the Nith. This sight, by no means 
so unusual then as now, influenced the muse of Burns, and the result was this 
exquisite lyric." — Cunningham.] 

Oh Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 

As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chane'd to meet ; barefoot 

But oh the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet more 

Were weel lae'd up in silken shoon, well, shoea 

An' 'twere more fit that she should sit 

Within yon chariot giit aboon. above 

* Young's Night Thoughts. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 557 

Her yellow Lair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck : 

An' her two eyes, like stars in skies, 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. from 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Air, — Wae is my heart 

[The Phillis of this song was Miss P. M'Murdo, of Drirailanrig.J 

Wae is my heart, an' the tear's in my e'e ; sad, eye 

Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me : long 

Forsaken an' friendless, my burden I bear, 
An' the sweet voice of pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 

Love, thou hast pleasures, an' deep ha'e I lov'd ; hay e 
Love, thou hast sorrows, an' sair ha'e I proved ; sore 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast, 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 

Oh, if I were happy, where happy I ha'e been, 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle-green ; 
For there he is wand'ring, an' musing on me, , 

Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis 's e'e. \ m 



AMANG THE TREES. 

Air, — The king of France, he rade a race. 

Amakg- the trees where humming bees among 

At buds an' flowers where hinging, O, hanging 

Auld Caledon drew out her drone, old 

An' to her pipe was singing, O ; 

'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, song 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O ; playea, off 

When there cam' a yell o' foreign squeels, came 

That dang her tapsalteerie, 0. . ^yfuney 

Their capon craws had queer ha' ha's, crows 

They made our lugs grow eerie, ; "Sed^*" 

The hungry bike did scrape an' pike swarm 

Till wc were wae an' weary, 0. sad 



558 BURXS'S SONGS. 

But a royal gliaist wha ance was cas'd, s nost who 

A prisoner aughteen year awa', eighteen, 

He fird a fiddler in tlie north away 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



THE HIGHLAND LADDIE, 

Air, — If ilioxClt play me fair play, 

[An old song of some length compressed.] 

The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Wore a plaid, an' was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His royal heart was firm an' true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound an' cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie ; 
An' a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glory, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom an' my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
Go ; for yourself procure renown, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie; 
An' for your lawful king his crown 9 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 



BTJRNS's SOXGS. 



559 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECIIAN. 
Air, — Jaclcy Latin. 

Gat ye me, oh gat ye me, 

Oh gat ye me wi' naething, 
Eock an' reel, an' spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my guteher has 

A hich house an' a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonnie sel', 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 



got 
nothing 



large 
besides, 
grandsire 
high, low one 

besides 

boast 



Oh haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing, hold 

Oh haud your tongue an' jauner ; prattle 

I held the gate till you I met, road 

Syne I began to wander : then 

I tint my whistle an' my sang, lost, song 

I tint my peace an' pleasure ; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing, grave 

Wad airt me to my treasure. would direct 



THE CABDIN' O'T. 

Air, — Salt fish and dumplings* 

1 coft a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a coat to Johnny o't ; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't, 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the lynin' o't. 

For though his locks be lyart gray, 
An' though his brow be beld aboon ; 

Yet I ha'e seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen. 



bought,stone f 
finest 

lover 
love, any 



every 
stole, lining 

mixed 
bald above 
have 
parish 



560 BURNS's SONGS. 

TO THEE, LOVED NITH. 
Air, — Unknown, 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi 1 careless thought I rang'd. 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 
Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear ! 



SAE FAR AWA\ 

Air, — Dalkeith Maiden Bridge. 

Oh sad and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa' ; so, awa 

Unknowing what my way may thwart 

My native land sae far awa'. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this fair sae far awa' ; . 
Gi'e body strength, then I'll ne'er start give 

At this my way sae far awa'. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her, sae far awa' : 
An' nocht can heal my bosom's smart, nought 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa'. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, none 

I feel but hers, sae far awa' ; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than hers, the fair sae far awa'. 



BANNOCKS O' BARLEY. 

Air, — The Killogie. 
Bannocks o' bear meal, cakes, barley 



Bannocks o' barley 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

Here's to the Highlandman's 
Bannocks o' barley. 

Wha in a brulzie 

"Will first cry sl parley ? 

Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ! 



561 



broil 



Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley ! 
Wha in his wae days 

"Were loyal to Charlie ? — 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 



who, sad 



ROBIN SHURE IN HAIRST. 



CHORUS. 



Robin shure in hairst, 
I shure wi' him ; 

Fient a heuk had I, 
Yet I stack by him. 


sheared, har- 
vest 

fiend, hook 
stuck 


I gaed up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden ; 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin ? 


went 
web 

gate 


Was na Robin bauld, 
Though I was a cottar, 

Play'd me sic a trick, 
And me the eller's dochter ? 


not, bold 

such 

elder's 
daughter 


Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 


victual 
fiend a whit 
knife 



562 BUHNS'S SONGS. 



SWEETEST MAY. 



Sweetest May, let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it : 
For its faith and truth reward it. 

Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy but the bonnie ; 
!Not high born, but noble minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it. 



MY JEAJST. 

[Written in the contemplation of his departure to the West Indies.] 

Though cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the Pole and Line, 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 

Though mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 



ON A PLOUGHMAN. 

["These verses," says Gilbert Bums, "are not my brother's, hut were sang 
by every ploughman and ploughman's mistress in Ayrshire before he was 
born." They were first published in Cromek's Reliqws from a manuscript in 
Burns's own handwriting.] 

As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring, one 

I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing ; so 
An' as he was singing thir words he did say, these 

There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month no 
o' sweet May. 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest, i ar k } from 
An' mount to the air wi 1 the dew on her breast, 
An' wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle an' sing, 
An' at night shell return to her nest back a^ain. 



BUIiNS'S SONGS. 563 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 
Air, — Up wi 1 the ploughman, 

[In Herd's collection may Ids found the old words of this song, some of which 
Burns has adopted.] 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 

Then up wi' my ploughman lad, 

An' hey my merry ploughman ! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken, 
Commend me to the ploughman. 

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, home 

He's aften wat an' weary : wet 

Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 
An' gae to bed my dearie ! 

I will wash my ploughman's hose, 

And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
I will mak' jjiy ploughman's bed, 

An' cheer him late and early. 

I ha'e been east, I ha'e been west, hate 

I ha'e been at Saint Johnston ; 
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 

Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 

Snaw white stockin's on his legs, snow 

And siller buckle glancin' ; silver 

A guid blue bonnet on his head — good 
An' oh, but he was handsome ! 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 

An' the corn-mou, man ; heap 

I never gat my coggie fou, got, dish full 

Till I met wi' the ploughman. 



564 



BUKNS'S SONGS. 



TIBBIE, I HA'E SEEN THE DAY. 
Air, — Invercauld's reel. 

["This song I composed about the age of seventeen."— Burns. 
girl named Isabella Steven, who lived near Loehlea.] 

Oh Tibbie, I ha'e seen the day 

Ye wad na been sae shy ; 
For lack o' gear ye lightly me, 

But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor, 
Ye spak na but gaed bye like stoure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 
But fient a hair care I. 



Tibbie was a 



have 

would not, so 

■wealth 
troth, al- 
though 

last night 
spoke, went, 
dust 
mock 
fiend 



I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink, 
That ye can please me at a wink, 
Whene'er ve like to try. 



money 



But sorrow tak' him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean, 
That looks sae proud and high. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'll cast your head anither airt, 
An' answer him fu' dry. 



who, any, 
wench 



Erection 



But if he ha'e the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak' my advice, 
Your caddie's gear mak's you sae nice ; 
The de'il a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I wad na gi'e her in her sark, 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark ; 
Ye need na look sae hi^h. 



wealth 

learning 
cows 



father's 
devil, one, 
ask 



give, shift 



BURNS's SONGS. 



565 



MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY. 
Air, — Galla Water, 

[Composed in imitation of an old ballad called McMillan's Peggy. Burns had 
courted "Peggy," who was a girl of rather elegant manners, for the purpose 
merely of impressing her with his talents that way. It ended, however, in his 
getting over head and ears in love with her, when to his great chagrin and 
dismay, he found she was .already engaged. "It cost me," says he, "some 
heartaches to get rid of the affair."] 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir moor 

Amang the heather, in my plaidie, among 

Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 

An' winter nights were dark an' rainy ; 
I'd seek some dell, an' in my arms 

I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 



Were I a baron proud an' high, 

An' horse an' servants waiting ready, 

Then a' 'twad gi'e o' joy to me, 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. 



it would give 
sharing it 



BONNIE PEGGY ALISON. 

Air, — Braes o' Balquhidder. 

[Composed, it is said, on the same giri whom the poet celebrates as Montgo- 
mery's Peggy.] 

CHORUS. 

I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

And I'll kiss thee owre again : over 

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison ! 



Ilk care an* fear, when thou art near, 
I ever mair defy them, O ; 

Young kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, 1 



each 
more 



566 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



When in my arms wi' a' thy charms, 
I clasp my countless treasure, O ; 

I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 

An' by thy e'en sae bonnie blue, 
I swear I'm thine for ever, O !— 

An' on thy lips I seal my vow, 
An' break it shall I never, ! 



no 

such 

eyes 



BONNIE PEG. 

[First published in the Edinburgh Magazine for 1SI8.1 

As I came in by our gate end, 

As day was waxin' weary, 
O wha came tripping down the street, 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, an' shape complete, 

Wi' nae proportion wanting, 
The Queen of Love did never move 

Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 

A-down yon winding river ; 
An', oh ! that hour an' broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever ? 



who 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. 

Air, — The job of journey -work. 

[First published in the Musical Museum. The idea taken from an old song 
with the o'erword,— " Here's his health in water."! 



Altho' my back be at the wa', 

And tho' he be the fimtor ; 
Altho' my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water ! 
O ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

Sae brawlie he could natter ; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

An' dree the kintra clatter. 
But tho' my back, &q, 



wall 

faulty person 



woe, go 

so nicely 

sore 
endure, 
country 



BURNS's SONGS. 667 

AH, CHLOKIS. 

Air, — Mojo r Grali a m . 

t Chloris, alias Jean Lorimer, alias Mrs. Whelpdale. First published in 
Pickering's Aldine edition of Burns.] 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, not 

That thou of love wilt hear : 
If from the lover thou maun flee, must 

Yet let the friend be dear. 

Altho' I love my Chloris mair more 

Than ever tongue could tell ; 
My passion I will ne'er declare, 

I'll say I wish thee well : 

Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 

An' a' my nightly dream, 
I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 

And say it is esteem. 



SONG, 

IN THE CHARACTER OF A RUINED FARMER. 

Air, — Go from my window, love, do. 

[The manuscript of this song, in Burns's handwriting, is in the possession of 
Mr. John Dick, bookseller, Ayr.] 

The sun he is sunk in the west, 
All creatures retired to rest, 
While here I sic all sore beset 

With sorrow, grief, and woe ; 
An' it's 0, fickle fortune, O ! 

The prosperous man is asleep, 

ISTor hears how the whirlwinds sweep : 

But misery and I must watch 

The surly tempests blow : 
An' it's O, fickle fortune, O. 

There lies the dear partner of my breast, 
Her cares for a moment at rest : 
Must I see thee, my youthful bride, 

Thus brought so very low I 
An' it's 0, fickle fortune, O. 



568 BURNS'S SONGS. 

There lie my sweet babies in her arms, 
No anxious fear their little hearts alarms ; 
But for their sake my heart doth ache, 
With many a bitter throe : 
An' it's 0, fickle fortune, O ! 

I once was by Fortune carest, 
I once could relieve the distrest : 
Now, life's poor support hardly earned, 
My fate will scarce bestow : 
An' it's O, fickle fortune, O. 

No comfort, no comfort I have ! 
How welcome to me were the grave ! 
But then my wife and children dear, 

whither would they go ? 
An' it's 0, fickle fortune, O ! 

O whither, O whither shall I turn ! 
All friendless, forsaken, forlorn ! 
For in this world rest or peace 

1 never more shall know ! 
An' it's 0, fickle fortune, ! 



EVAN BANKS. 

Air, — Savourna Deelislu 

[Printed in the Musical Museum with Burns's name attached. The poet 
imagines himself in India.] 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires: 
To Evan banks with temp'rate ray, 
Home of youth, he leads the day. 

Oh ! banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh ! stream, whose murmurs still I hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 



And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 



BURNS'S SONGS. 569 

Who, trembling, heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye : 

Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ? 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound, 
Ye lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below ; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings 
All that on Evan's border springs ! 
Sweet banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side ; 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ! 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 

And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 

Nor more may aught my steps divide 

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde ! 



TIBBIE DUNBAB. 

Air, — Johnny M'-GilL 

[The air to which Burns wrote this song was composed by John'M'Gill, a 
fiddler of Girvan.] 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

1 carena thy daddie, his lands and his money, care not for 
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly; so 

But say thou wilt ha'e me, for better for waur, have, worse 

An' come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ! 



570 BURNS'S SOXGS. 

SONG. 

Air, — Maggy Lauder, 

When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couldna tell what ailed roe, could not 

My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat, 

My een they almost foiled me. eyes 

She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, so 

All grace does round her hover, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart, one 

An 1 I became a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay, 
She's aye sae blythe an' cheerie : 
She's aye sae bonnie, blythe, an' gay, 

O gin I were her dearie ! that 

Had I Dundas's whole estate, 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in ; 
Did warlike laurels crown my brow, 

Or humbler bays entwining — 
I'd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet, 

Could I but hope to move her, 
An' prouder than a belted knight, 

I'd be my Jeanie's lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay, &c. 

But sair I fear some happier swain sore 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour ; 
If so, may every bliss be hers, 

Though I maun never have her. must 

But gang she east, or gang she west, go 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or ears, or taste, 

Shell always find a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay, &c. 



THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

[An unfinished sketch.] 

There was a bonnie lass, and a bonnie, bonnie lass, 
And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear, love 



fcURNS'8 SONGS. 

Till war's loud alarms stole her laddie fraeher arms, from 
Wi' monie a sigh an' a tear. • many 

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly roar, 

He still was a stranger to fear ; 
And nought could him quail, or his bosom assail, 

But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. so 



571 



CROWDIE. 



jTrihted in Johnson's" Musical Museum— corrected by Bums—last verse sup- 
posed to be by Burns,— chorus old.] 



O that I had never been married, 

I would never had nae care ; 
Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 
An' they cry crowdie evermair. 
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 

Three times crowdie in a day ; 
Gin ye crowdie ony mair, 
Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. 

Waefu' want an' hunger fley me, 

Glowrin' by the hallan en' ; 
Sair I fecht them at the door, 
But aye am eerie they come ben. 
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 

Three times crowdie in a day ; 
Gin ye crowdie ony mair, 

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. 



would, no 

porridge 
once 

any 



woeful, fright 
staring, door* 
way 
sore, fight 

dismal, in 



GUID ALE COMES. 

[frir.tecHh Johnson's Musical M useum,— corrected by Bums, and collated with 
"ft eupy in the poet's handwriting.] 

O guid ale come3 and guid ale goes* good 

Guid ale gars me sell my hose, makes 

Sell my hose and pawn my shoon \ ehoe» 

Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. bp 



572 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



I had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' we el eneugh, 
I selt them a' just ane by ane ; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 



six oxen, 
plough 

well enough 
sold, one 



THE MIRK JSTIGHT O' DECEMBER. 

Air, — May, thy morn. 

[The celebrated Clarinda is supposed to be the heroine of this song.] 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, 

As the mirk night o' December, dark 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

An' secret was the chamber ; 
An' dear was she I darena name, dare not 

But I will aye remember : always 

An* dear was she I darena name, 

But I will are remember. 



An' here's to them that like oursel', 

Can push about the jorum ; 
An' here's to them that wish us weel, 

May a' that's guid watch o'er them ! 
An' here's to them we darena name. 

The dearest o' the quorum : 
An' here's to them we darena tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 



jug of drink 



THE MAUCHLIXE LADY. 
Air, — 1 had a horse, I had nae mair. 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady, 
"Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye. 

But when I cam' roun' by Mauchline toun, 

Not dreadin' any body, 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

An' by a Mauchline lady, 



not 

went, rode 
always 

town 



(.Joan Ar« 
mour) 



BURNS'S SONGS, 573 



LUCKLESS FORTUNE. 



Oh raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 

Oh raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low, ! 

My stem was fair, my bud was green, 
My blossom sweet did blow, O ; 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 
And made my branches grow, O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O, 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



FRAGMENT. 

Am, — John Anderson, my jo. 

One night as I did wander, 

"When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder, 

Upon an auld tree-root* eld 

Auld Ayr ran by before me, 

An' bickered to the seas, raced 

A cushat crooded o'er me, Tooed^ * 1 ' 

That echoed through the braes. 



OH WHY THE DEUCE SHOULD I REPINE. 

[An early extempore production, dated April, 1782.3 

Oh why the deuce should I repine, 

An' be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twenty-three, an' five feet nine— 

I'll go an' be a sodger I 



574 



BURNS'S SONGS, 



I gat some gear wi' mickle care, wealth 

I held it weel thegither ; well together 

But now it's gane, an' something mair — gone, more 
I'll go an' be a sodger ! 



MAUCHLINE BELLES. 
Air, — Mauchline Belles. 

Oh leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel ; 

Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks like Hob Mossgiel. 

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 
They make your youthful fancies reel ; 

They heat your veins and fire your brains, 
An' then ye're prey for Bob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 
A heart that warmly seems to feel ; 

That feeling heart but acts a part, 
'Tis rakish art in Bob Mossgiel. . 

The frank address, the soft caress, 

Are worse than poison'd darts of steel ; 

The frank address an' politesse 
Are all finesse in Bob Mossgiel. 



MY HOGGIE. 

[Unclaimed by Bums, but his almost beyond doubtJ 

What will I do gin my hoggie die, 

My joy, my pride, my hoggie ? 
My only beast, I had nae mae, 

An' oh, but I was vogie. 

The lee*lang night we watched the fauld, 

Me an' my faithful doggie, 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Axxiang the braes sae scroggie, 



if, young 
sheep 

no more 
rain 

livelong,. Lid 

casentfe 
fuHofsrnnfvd 
busies 



BURNS'S SONGS. 575 

But the howlet cried frae the castle wa', owl, from 

The blutter frae the boggie, ^g" 81 ^ 6 ' 

The tod replied upon the hill — fox 
I trembled for my hoggie. 

When day did daw an' cocks did craw, dawn, crow 

The morning it was foggie, 

An unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, fSSgZffih 

An' maist has killed my hoggie. almost 



DOWN THE BURST, DAYIE. 

[" Down the burn, Davie " " I have this moment tried an alteration leaving 
out the last half of the third stanza, and the first half of the last stanza, thus,— 
As down, (fee." — Extract from correspondence with Thomson.] 

As down the burn they took their way, 

An' through the flowery dale ; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, off 

An' love was aye the tale. always 

With "Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew ?" such 

Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 
An' aye shall follow you." 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 

Am, — For a* that, and a 1 that. 

Though women's minds, like winter winds 

May shift an' turn an' a' that : 
The noblest breast adores them maist, most 

A consequence I draw that. 
For a' that an' a' that, 

An' twice as mickle's a' that, much 

The bonnie lass that I lo'e best, love 

Shall be my ain for a' that. own 

Great love I bear to a' the fair, 

Their humble slave an' a' that ; 
But lordly will, I hold it still 

A mortal sin to thraw that. thwart 



576 BURNS'S S0N3S. 



But there is ane aboon the lave C rest above 

Has wit an' sense an' a' that, 
A bonnie lass, I like her best, 

An' wha a crime dare ca' that ? V h , call 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 

Air, — Jamie, come try me. 

[" This air is Oswald's, the song is mine."— Burns. The idea is taken from an 
old song. ] 

Jamie, come try me ; 

Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should ask my love, 

Could 1 deny thee ? 
If thou would win my love. 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love, 

Wha could espy thee ? vho 

If thou would be my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 



BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER. 

Air, — Galla water. 

[An old song modified. A more original version was composed for Thomson's 
Melodies. The air is very old and very sweet— it was Haydn's favourite.] 

Braw, braw lads o' Galla water, fine 

O braw lads o' Galla water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, above 

An' follow my love thro' the water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae sweet her brow, so 

Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie ; eyes 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 

The mair I kiss, she's aye my dearie. more 



BURNS'S SONGS. 

O'er yon bank an' o'er yon brae, 
O'er yon moss amang the heather 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee 
An' follow my love thro' the water, 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 

The lassie lost a silken snood 
That cost her mony a blirt an' bleary.* 

Braw, braw lads o' Galla water ; 

O braw lads o' Galla water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 

An' follow my love thro' the water. 



ul 



hill 

amoDg 



BOKKTIE PEG-A-KAMSAY. 

Air, — Cauldis the e'enin' blast. 

[Written by Bums for Johnson's Museum.1 

Cauld is the e'enin' blast 

O' Boreas o'er the pool, 
An' dawin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 



cold, evening 

dawning 
birches 



O cauld blaws the e'enin' blast 
When bitter bites the frost, 

An' in the mirk an' dreary drift 
The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne'er sae mirky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But bonnie Peg-a-Ramsay 
Gat grist to her mill. 



blows 



got 



COME EEDE ME, DAME. 

Co^ie rede me, dame, come tell me, dame, co^sei 
An' nane can tell mair truly, none, more 

* Outburst of grief with wet eyes. 



578 



BURNS S SONGS. 



What colour maun the man be of 
To love a woman duly. 

The carlin clew baith up an' down, 
An' leugh an 1 answer'd ready, 

I learned a sang in Annandale, 
A dark man for my lady. 

But for a country quean like thee, 
Young lass, I tell thee fairly, 

That wi' the white I've made a shift, 
An' brown will do fu rarely. 

There's mickle love in raven locks, 
The flaxen ne'er grows youden, 

There's kiss and hause me in the brown, 
An' glory in the gowden. 



old worn an, 
scratched, 
both 

laughed 

song 



wench 



much 
gray 
embrace 
golden 



HAPPY FKIE^DSHIP. 

[Composed on a festive occasion. The original manuscript is said to be in the 
possession of a Mr. Hendries, captain of a merchant vessel, the nephew of the 
host who entertained the compan}^.] 

Here around the ingle bleezin', fire blazing 

Wha sae happy and sae free ? so 

Tho' the northern wind blaws freezin', blows 

Frien'ship warms baith you an' me. both 

Happy we are a' thegither, together 

Happy we'll be ane an' a' ; one and all 
Time shall see us a' the blyther 

Ere we rise to gang awa'. go 

See the miser o'er his treasure 

Gloating wi' a greedy e'e ! eye 

Can he feel the glow o' pleasure 

That around us here we see ? 

Can the peer in silk and ermine, 

Ca' his conscience half his own ? 
His claes are spun an' edged wi' vermin clothes 

Tho' he stan' afore a throne ! 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



579 



Thus then let us a' be tassing 
Aff our stoups o' gen'rous flame ; 

An' while roun' the board 'tis passing, 
Raise a sang in frien 'ship's name. 



drinking 
off 

song 



Frien'ship mak's us a' mair happy, 
Frien'ship gi'es us a' delight ; 

Friendship consecrates the drappie, 
Frien'ship brings us here to night. 



mora 
gives 
drop 



Happy we've been a' thegither, 
Happy we've been ane an' a'; 

Time shall find us a' the blyther 
When we rise to gang awa'. 



HEE BALOIL 



Air, — Tlie Highland balou. 

[Cattle stealing formerly was a mere foraging expedition ; and it has been 
remarked that many of the best families in the north can trace their descent 
from the daring sons of the mountains. "In the 'Hee Balou' we see one of 
those heroes in the cradle."— Cromek.] 



Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald ; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



finely knows 
who 



Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie, 
An' thou live, thou 'It steal a naiggie; 
Travel the country thro' an' thro' 
An' bring hame a Carlisle cow. 



blessings on, 
neck 
horse 

home 



Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 

"Weel, my babie, may thou furder : well, succeed 

Herry the loons o' the laigh countrie, harry, low 

Syne to the Highlands hame to me. then 



580 BURNS's SONGS. 

THE PIPER. 

A FRAGMENT. 

There cam' a piper out o' Fife, 

I watna what they ea'd him, wot not 
He play'd our cousin Kate a spring, 

When fient a body bade him. fiend*.*, devil 

An' aye the mair he hotch'd an' blew more, hitched 

The mair that she forbade him. 



JENNY M'CRAW. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the heather, taken 

Say was it the covenant carried her thither ; 

Jenny M'Craw to the mountains is gane, gone 

Their leagues an' their covenants a' she has ta'en ; 

My head an' my heart, now quo' she, are at rest, 

An' as for the lave, let the de'il do his best. rest, devil 



THE LAST BRAW BRIDAL. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The last braw bridal that I was at fine 

'Twas on a hallo wmas day, 
An' there was routh o' drink an' fun, plenty 

An' mickle mirth and play. much 

The bells they rang, an' the carlins sang, old Avomen 

An' the dames danc' d in the ha' ; 
The bride went to bed wi' the silly bridegroom, 

In the midst o' her kimmers a'. gossips 



O WAT YE WHAT MY MINNIE DID. 

wat ye what my minnie did, wot, mother 

My minnie did, my minnie did, 

O wat ye what my minnie did T . 

O' Tysday 'teen to me, jo ? even* 7 a 



BURXS'S SONGS. 



581 



She laid me in a saft bed, 
A saft bed, a saft bed ; 

She laid me in a saft bed 
An' bade gude'en to me, jo. 



soft 



good even 



An' wat ye what the parson did, 

The parson did, the parson did, 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

A' for a penny fee, jo ? 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man, 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

That might ha'e worried me, jo. 



long 

big, strong 

have 



An' I was but a young thing, 

A young thing, a young thing, 
An' I was but a young thing, 

Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 
I wat the kirk was in the wyte, 

In the wyte, in the wyte, 
To pit a young thing in a fright, 

An' loose a man on me, jo. 



none 
■wot. blaip<=» 



pn( 



O CAN YE LABOUR LEA. 

O can ye labour lea, young man, 

An' can ye labour lea ; 
Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 

Ye'se never scorn me. 



grass land 

go,road,canie 
ye shall 



I fee'd a man at Martinmas, 
Wi' airl pennies three ; 

An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him, 
He couldna labour lea. 



earnest 
money 
fault, found 



The stibble rig is easy plough'd, stubble ridge 

The fallow land is free ; 

But wha wad keep the handless coof, who would, 

That couldna labour lea. numy 



582 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



BROSE AKD BUTTER. 

O gi'e my love brose, brose, 
Gi'e my love brose an' butter ; 

For nane in Carrick or Kyle 
Can please a lassie better. 

The laverock lo'es the grass, 

The muir hen lo'es the heather ; 

But gi'e me a braw moonlight, 
An' me an' my love together. 



give, (kind of 
pottage) 



lark 
moor 
fine 



O MERRY HA'E I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE. 

Air, — Lord Breadalhands march. 



O merry ha'e I been teethin' a heckle, 

An' merry ha'e I been shapin' a spoon, 
An' merry ha'e I been cloutin' a kettle, 

An' kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, 

An' a' the lang day I whistle an' sing ; 
A' th© laag night I cuddle my kimmer, 

An' a' the lang night am as happy's a king. 

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, 

O marrying Bess, to gi'e her a slave : 
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, 

An' blythe be the bird that sings on her grave ! 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms an' kiss me again I 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie, 

An' blest be the day I did it again. 



have 
mending 
long, ply 
dear girl 



sorrow, 
thrashed, 
winnings 

give 



MY HEART WAS ANCE AS BLYTHE AN' FREE. 

Air,— To the weavers gin ye go, 

["The chorus of this song is old-^the rest is mine."— Burns. The heroine 
has been sent with the " homespun " to the weavers to get it woven into cloth.] 



My heart was ance as blythe an' free 
As simmer days were lang, 



once 
*ummer,long 



BURNS S SONGS. 



583 



But a bonnie westlin weaver lad 
Has gart me change my sang. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 

To the weavers gin ye go ; 
I rede ye right, gang ne'er at night 
To the weavers gin ye go. 

My mither sent me to the town 

To warp a plaiden wab, 
But the weary, weary warpin' o't 

Has gart me sigh an' sab. 

A bonnie westlin weaver lad 

Sat working at his loom ; 
He took my heart as wi' a net, 

In every knot an' thrum. 

I sat beside my warpin' wheel, 

An' aye I ca'd it roun 7 ; 
But every shot an' every knock, 

My heart it ga'e a stoun. 

The moon was sinking in the west, 

Wi' visage pale an' wan, 
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad 

Convoy'd me thro' the glen. 

But what was said or what was done, 

Shame fa' me gin I tell, 
But oh ! I fear the kintra soon 

Will ken as weeFs mysel'. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids, 
To the weavers gin ye go, 

I rede ye right, gang ne'er at night 
To the weavers gin ye go. 



western 
made, song 
if 

counsel, go 



mother 
web 



sob 



drove 



gave, sudden 
pang 



if 

country 
know, well 



WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS. 

When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you my dearie ; 
An' now what lands between us lie, 

How can I be but eerie ! sad 



584 BURNS's SONGS. 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wae an' weary, WO fui 

It was na sae ye glinted by ?S*2? 

Txri x -5 j • brightly past 

vv hen 1 was wi my dearie. 



O LEEZE ME ON MY WEE THING. 

[" ■ My wife's a winsome wee thing'— I think the first eight lines very good; 
but I do not admire the other eight. I have been trying to spin a stanza, but 
could make nothing better than the following."— Burns to Thomson.] 

O leeze me on my wee thing, blessings 

My bonnie blythesome wee thing ; 
Sae lang's I ha'e my wee thing, long as, have 

I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, world's 

An* may see mickle mair o't, much more 

Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
An' ne'er a word repine. 



O SAW YE MY DEARIE. 
Air, — Eppie Macnab. 

[An old song very much improved. "The old song had more wit than 
decency." — Burns.] 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 

She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, garden 

She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. wiUnot,home 

O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 

O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 

Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon, 

Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 

She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot, 

An' for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 

As light as the air, as fause as thou's fair, false 

Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



585 



OH, WHARE DID YOU GET? 

Air, — Bonnie Dundee. 

[The air of "Bonnie Dundee" is very old. The second stanza only is the 
composition of Burns.] 

Oh, whare did you get that hauver meal bannock? oatmeal cake 

O silly blind body, oh dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston an' bonnie Dundee. 
Oh gin I saw the laddie that ga'e me't ; 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee ; 
May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

An' send him hame safe to his babie an' me ! home 



do not 
got. from, 
soldier 

if, gave 
dandled 



My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e-bree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer an' dearer to me 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
An' I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 

An' mak' thee a man like thy daddie dear. 



lip 

eyebrow 



build 
winding 
clothe 
make 



COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 

Air, — O'er the water to Charlie. 

[The second stanza, and the greater part of the third, are from the pen of 
Bui ns The other lines are part of one of the old versions, of which there were 
bcvcr.iL] 



Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 
Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 

I'll gi'e John Ross another bawbee, 
To boat me o'er to Charlie. 



give, half- 
penn} 



We'll o'er the water an' o'er the sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ; 

Come weal, come woe, we'll gather an' go, 
An' live or die wi' Charlie. 



586 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there be abhor him : 

But oh, to see auld Nick gaun hame, 
An' Charlie's faes before him ! 

I swear an' vow by moon an' stars, 
An' sun that shines so' early, 

If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



love, well 

old, going 
home 
foes 



oft 



RATTLIN' ROARIN' WILLIE. 

Air, — Rattlin 1 roarin? Willie. 

[ ** The last stanza of this song is mine ; it was composed out of compliment to 
one of the worthiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, writer to the signet, 
and colonel of the Crochallan corps— a club of wits who took that title at the time 
of the raising of the Fencible regiments."— -Burns. The first two stanzas are part 
of a border song.] 

Oh rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Oh, he held to the fair, went 

An' for to sell his fiddle, 

An' buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi' his fiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his e'e ; salt, eye 

An' rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! home 



Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

Oh sell your fiddle sae fine ; 
Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

An' buy a pint o' wine. 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle an' I ha'e had. 

As I cam' by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin' roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en' — 
Sitting at yon board en' — 

An' amang gude companie; 
Rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me 1 



world 
many 
have 



quietly 
looked in 



good 



BURNS'S SONGS. 587 

KATHERINE JAFFRAF. 

There lived a lass in yonder dale, 

An' down in yonder glen, O ! 
An' Katherine Jaffray was her name, 

Weel known to many men, O ! well 

Out came the lord of Lauderdale, 

Out frae the south countrie, O ! f rom 

All for to court this pretty maid, 

Her bridegroom for to be, O ! 

He's telTd her father an' mither baith, told, both 

As I hear sundry say, O ! 
But he has na tell'd the lass hersel', no 

Till on her wedding day, O ! 

There came the Laird o' Lochinton, 

Out frae the English border, 
All for to court this pretty maid, 

All mounted in good order. 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES, NEWS. 

[From the Musical Museum, where it is stated to have been written by Burns.] 

There's news, lasses, news, 

Gude news I have to tell ; good 

There's a boat fu' o' lads 

Come to our town to sell. 

The wean wants a cradle, child 

An' the cradle wants a cod ; pillow 

An' I'll no gang to my bed not g0 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, mither, quo' she, mother, 

Do what ye can : <i uoth 

I'll no gang to my bed 
Till I get a man. 

have, good, 

I ha'e as gude a craft rig croft build- 
As made o' yird an' stane ; earth, stone 

And waly fa' the ley-crap, iJ1 befa1 ^ 

•n t **iiij • grass-crop 

For I maun till d again. must till it 



688 



BURNS'S SONGS. 



THERE WAS A WIFE. 

[Printed in the Musical Mtiseum as having been written by Burns.] 

dwelt 



There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She brew'd gude ale for gentlemen, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in anither, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



good 
old 



daughter 
another 

two, together 



They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, 

Scroggam ; 

That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither, one, other 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



THE KANTIN' DOG, THE DADDIE O'T. 
Air, — East neuk o' Fife. 

[The mother of the poet's illegitimate child, "Sonsie, smirking, dear bought 
Bess," is the heroine of this song.] 



O wha my babie-clouts will buy ? 
O wha will tent me when I cry V 
Wha will kiss me where I lie ? — 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 

O wha will own he did the fau't ? 
O wha will buy the groanin' maut? 
O wha will tell me how to ca't ? 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 

When I mount the creepie chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there? 
Gi'e me Rob, I'll seek nae mair, 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. 



who, clothes 
tend 

father of it 

fault 
malt 
call it 



stool of re- 
pentance 

give, no more 



BURNS's SONGS. 589 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? tal ^ h y m y- 

Wha will mak' me fidgin' fain ? mike, fidget- 

Wba will kiss me o'er again ? ting with 
The rantin' dog, the daddie o't. dellsh ' 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Air, — Failte na Miosg. 
["The first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is mine."— Burns.} 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover 'd with snow ; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer : 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



LAMENT, 

WHEN ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND IN 1786. 

Air, — The banks of the Devon. 
[First published in the Dumfries Journal] 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intensely surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave I 



590 BURNS'S SONGS. 

Ye foam crested billows, allow me to wail, 

Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore, 

Where the flower which bloomed sweetest in Coila's green 
vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary, 's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face on the wave ; 

No more shall my arm cling with fondness around her, 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast ; 

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, 
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



DAMON AND SYLVIA. 

Air, — Tlie tither morn, as 1 forlorn. 

Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 

And glances o'er the brae, Sir, Mil 

Slides by a bower where mony a flower many 

Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir. 

There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay, 

To love they thought nae crime, Sir : no 

The wild birds sang, the echoes rang, 

While Damon's heart beat time, Sir. 



COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Air, — Cock up your beaver. 

When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Cam' to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown ; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, 
Hey, braw Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 






BURNS'S SONGS. 691 

Cock up your beaver, 

An' cock it fu' sprush, spruce 

We'll over the border 

An' gi'e them a brush ; g i ve 

There's somebody there 

We'll teach better behaviour — 
Hey, braw Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 



SHELAH O'NEIL. 

When first I began for to sigh and to woo her, 

Of many fine things I did say a great deal, 
But above all the rest, that which pleas'd her the best, 

Was, Oh ! will you marry me, Shelah O'Neil ? 
My point I soon carried, for straight we were married, 

Then the weight of my burden I soon 'gan to feel, — 
For she scolded, she fisted, O then I enlisted, 

Left Ireland, and whisky, and Shelah CNeil. 

Then tir'd and dull hearted, O then I deserted, 

And fled into regions far distant from home, 
To Frederick's army, where none e'er could harm me, 

Save Shelah herself in the shape of a bomb. 
I fought every battle, where cannons did rattle, 

Felt sharp shot, alas ! and the sharp pointed steel, 
But in all my wars round, thank my stars I ne'er found 

Ought so sharp as the tongue of curs'd Shelah O'Neil. 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 
Air, — KilliecranJcie. 

[The occasion of this ballad was as follows : — When Mr. Cunningham of Enter- 
kin came to his estate, two mansions on it, Enterkin and Annbank, were both 
in a ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself with some eclat to the county, 
he got temporary erections made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully decorated with 
shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to which most of the respectable 
families in the county were invited. A dissolution of parliament was soon ex- 
pected, and this festivity was thought to be an introduction to a canvass for 
representing the county. — Mr. C, however, did not canvass the county — 
Gilbert Burns.] 

Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's house, who 

To do our errands there, man ? 



592 



BUKNS'S SONGS. 



sol diet 
great 



one gives 
another 



song 



Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' the merry lads o' Ayr, man ? 
Or will we send a man o' law ? 

Or will we send a sodger ? 
Or him wha led our Scotland a 1 , 

The meikle Ursa-Major ? 

Come, will ye court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man ? 
For worth an' honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's,* man ? 
Ane gi'es them coin, ane gi'es them wine, 

Anither gi'es them clatter ; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gi'es a Fete Champetre. 

When Love an' Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green woods amang, man ; 
Where, gathering flowers an' busking bowers, 

They heard the blackbird's sang, man : 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss, 

Sir Politics to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth on gleesome wing, 

Owre hill an' dale she flew, man ; 
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen an' shaw she knew, man : 
She summon'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water, 
On th' bonnie banks of Ayr to meet, 

An' keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous cr^w, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, nuiu ; 
An' Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter , 
The western breeze steals through the trees 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

* Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloacaird, commonly pronounced 
Glencaird. 



over 
each 
wood 



cold 



climbed 



EURNS'S SONGS. 503 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! so 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett, gate 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics cam' there, to mix 

An' make his ether-stane, man !* adder-stone 

He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : none 

He blushed for shame, he quat his name, quitted 

Forswore it every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join an' share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A BALLAD. 

I An improvement upon an early song, probably of English origin. ) 

There were three kings into the east, 

Three kings both great and high ; 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn should die. 

They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

Put clods upon his head ; 
And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath have 

John Barleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn came up again, 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

* Alluding to a superstition, which represents adders as forming annually 
from their slough certain little annular stones of streaked colouring, which are 
occasionally found, and the real origin of which are supposed by antiquaries to 
be Druklical.— Chambers. 



£94 BURNS'S SONGS. 

The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong ; 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 

The sooer autumn enter'd mild, 
When he grew wan and pale ; 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age : 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee ; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back, 

And cudgelTd him full sore ; 
They hung him up before the storm, 

And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They filled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim ; 
They heaved in John Barleycorn. 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor 

To work him further woe ; 
And still, as signs of life appear' d, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame 

The marrow of his bones ; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

For he crush' d him 'tween two stones. 

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drunk it round and round ; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 595 



John Barleycorn was a hero bold, 

Of noble enterprise ; 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise. 

Twill make a man forget his woe ; 

'Twill heighten all his joy ; 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Though the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand ; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. 

Air, — Miss Admiral Gordon s strathspey. 

[" This song I composed out of compliment to Mrs. Burns.— N.B. It was in the 
honeymoon." — Burns. The air is hy Marshall, long hutler to the Duke of 
Gordon, and the author of " Wishaw's favourite," &c. J 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, directions, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best : love 

There wild woods grow, an' rivers row, 

An' mony a hill between ; many 

But day an' night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flow'rs, 

I see her sweet an' fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie now'r that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, wood 

There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

Oh blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw sail soft 

Amang the leafy trees, among 

TVi' balmy gale, frae hill an' dale from 

Bring hame the laden bees ; home 



50G BURNS'S SONGS. 

An' bring the lassie back to me 

That's aye sae neat an' clean ; so 

Ae smile o' her wad banish care, one, would 

Sae charming is my Jean. 

What sighs an' vows amang the knowes knolls 

Ha'e passed atween us twa ! have, two 

How fond to meet, how wae to part, sad 

That night she gaed awa' ! went away 

The powers aboon can only ken, above> kncm 

To whom the heart is seen, 

That nane can be sae dear to me none 

As my sweet lovely Jean ! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 

["Here is a sincere and solemn avowal— a confession at once devout, poetical, 
and human— a history in the shape of a prophecy."— Wordsworth.] 

Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, over 

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool ? sneak 

Let him draw near ; 

An' owre this grassy heap sing dool, dolefully 

An' drap a tear. drop 

Is there a bard of rustic song, 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 

That weekly this area throng ? 

Oh, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave ? 
Here pause — and, through the starting tear, 

Survey this grave. 



BURNS'S SONGS. 597 



The poor inhabitant below, 

Was quick to learn, and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And softer flame ; 
But thoughtless follies laid him low, 

And stained his name ! 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hole, 

In low pursuit ; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-control 

Is wisdom's root. 



BELL AND BAIN, PRINTERS, GLASGOW. 



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paper, price 6d.; post free for 7 stamps. 

The Poetical Works of Robert Burns, Complete, with 
Memoir, Prefatory Notes, and Marginal Glossary, beautiful 
Portrait, and other Illustrations ; forming the cheapest large 
type edition of the Poet's Works ever issued. Cloth extra, 
price 2s. 6d.; post free for 36 stamps. 

How to Write: a Pocket Manual of Composition and 

Letter- Writing, embracing Hints on Penmanship, and the choice 
of Writing Materials ; Practical Rules for Literary Composition 
in general, and Epistolary and Newspaper Writing and Proof- 
correcting in particular; and Directions for Writing Letters. 
To which are added, Forms for Letters of Introduction, Notes, 
Cards, &c. In paper cover, 6d. ; post free for 7 stamps. 

How to Debate: a Manual for Debating Societies, with 
Hints as to Public Speaking. Price 2d.; post free for 3 stamps. 

How to Behave: a Manual of Etiquette and Polite 
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Personal Habits, Dress, Self-Culture, Manners, and Morals, 
Courtesy, Etiquette, &c. Price 6d.; post free for 7 stamps. 

How to do Business: a Manual of Practical Affairs, and 
Guide to Success in Life, embracing Principles of Business. 
Advice in Reference to a Business Education, Choice of a 
Pursuit, Buying and Selling, General Management, Causes of 
Success and Failure, How to get Customers, Business Forms, 
&c. Price 6d. ; post free for 7 Stamps. 

Cameron s Short- Hand Writer's Pocket Guide, being a 
new and improved System of Stenography, whereby that art 
may be acquired in a few hours, without the aid of a teacher ; 
Royal 32mo, cloth gilt, price 6d.; post free for 7 stamps. 

Johns oris Dictionary of the English Language. Diamond 
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stamps. Also an i8mo Edition, cloth, price 9d.; post free for 
II stamps. 



WORKS PUBLISHED BY JOHN S. MARR. 



CHEAP LIBRARY OF AMUSEMENT AND 
INSTRUCTION. 

The following Volumes price 6d. each; or Post Free for 7 Stamps, 

The Budget of Anecdote, Wit, mid Humour: a choice 
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selected from the best sources. i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

Fireside Amusements for Wiitter Evenings ; containing the 
best Riddles, Enigmas, Conundrums, Puzzles, Fortune-Telling, 
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" Patchwork: " a book of Pun and Fun, compiled by 
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Anecdotes, &c, ever published. i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

The Lives of Celebrated Warriors: Wallace, Bruce, 
Wellington, Bonaparte, Havelock, and Sir Colin Campbell. 

Popular Stories by Popular Writers: or, Light Reading 
for Leisure Hours. Demy i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

Little Tales for Little Readers: Amusing Stories for the 
Young, with Woodcuts. i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

The Scottish Minstrel: 196 of the most Popular Songs of 
Scotland. i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

The Universal Song Pooh: 198 of the most Popular Songs 
of the Day. i8mo, sewed, fancy cover. 

The Poetical Works of Robert Tamiahill: with Memoir 
of his Life. 32mo, fancy cover. 

Johnson! s Dictionary. 321110, cloth. 

Grafs fntroduction to Arithmetic: for use in Schools and 

Private Instruction. 
The Ready Reckofter; or, Trader's Sure Guide. 



LETTER WRITERS. 

The Gentlemen V Letter Writer; containing 75 Specimens 
of Letters on Business, Friendship, Love, Courtship, Marriage, 
Applications for Situations, Forms of Receipts and Bills &c 
Price 3d. ; post free for 4 stamps. 






io WORKS PUBLISHED BY JOHN S. MARR. 

LETTER WRITERS-continued. 

How to Write. See page 8. Price 6d. ; post free for 7 
stamps. 

The Ladies' Letter Writer; containing 67 Examples of 
Letters on Love, Courtship, Business, Friendship, and a 
variety of other subjects, with Forms of Invitations, Cards, 
Notes, Bills, Directions for Addressing Persons of all Ranks, 
&c Price 3d. ; post free for 4 stamps. 

The Model Letter Writer, for the use of Ladies and 
Gentlemen : a complete Guide to Correspondence ; comprising 
142 original Letters on Business, Love, Courtship, Marriage, 
and other subjects ; Directions for Letter Writing, Instructions 
for making Wills, Forms of Invitations, Receipts, Bills, and 
Notes ; Correspondents' Directory, and copious List of Useful 
Abbreviations. Price 6d. ; post free for 7 stamps. 



THE FIRESIDE SERIES OF NOVELS. 

Price Sixpence each, or Post Free for Seven Stamps. 

1. A Gold Hunter's Adventures between Mel- 

bourne and Ballarat. 

2. The Adventures of a Midshipman. 

3. Life at the Gold Mines. 

4. The Household Skeleton. 

5. Warncliffe the Wanderer. 

6. Brave Old Salt ; or, Life on the Quarter-deck. 

7. The Light Dragoon. 

8. The Gambler's Last Pledge. 

9. Life among the Red Indians. 

10. Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. By 

Professor Wilson, of Edinburgh University. 

11. Trials of Margaret Lyndsay. By Professor 

Wilson, of Edinburgh University. 



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